Sympathetic Properties
by Mr Norrell
Summary: Having been treated as a servant his entire life, Harry is more sympathetic when Dobby arrives, avoiding Vernon's wrath and gaining a bit of freedom. That freedom changes his summer, his life, and the world forever. A very long character-driven story that likes to play with canon.
1. Dobby's Plight

**AN:** As a word of warning, this story is not going to be for everyone. It follows story lines, not plot points; it deals with the emotional reality of the characters, not so-called "excitement" or manufactured "drama." While Harry is a central figure, the narrative will split off to show the world from many different angles and give alternative interpretations based on various events while furthering the much greater story of overall societal change.

Though some would say this is an AU because it does not hold to many of the post-publication "revelations" of J. K. Rowling, I do not consider them Canon in the first place. Had she instead provided such information in the books where it belonged rather than short-changing the world-building, character development, and internal consistency, that would be a different matter entirely. So if you accept anything, including the words of Rowling, as the Indisputable Truth about all things Harry Potter then this story's not for you since I fully intend to slowly warp your head canon. Likewise, if you shun certain clichés commonly found in fanfiction then I ask you to still give things a shot because they're done with a subversive intent rather than playing it straight.

By now you should know that I'm not J. K. Rowling nor own any of her characters.

.o0O0o.

After a day spent in the blazing hot sun cleaning the windows, washing the car, mowing the lawn, trimming the flower beds, pruning and watering the roses, repainting the garden bench and having only two slices of bread and a hunk of cheese for dinner, Harry Potter was going to be spending the rest of his twelfth birthday in his room pretending he didn't exist. His relatives, the Dursleys of number 4 Privet Drive, were spending his birthday doing precisely the same thing... while hosting a dinner party that they had specifically informed him that he would not be attending.

Having a horrible birthday shouldn't have surprised him by this point. His aunt and uncle seemed to take pride in keeping him as miserable as possible. This was precisely why Harry's racing broom and all of his books on magic had promptly been locked away in the cupboard under the stairs the instant he'd returned from his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The only thing even slightly unusual about his birthday so far had been the bulbous pair of eyes that had been staring at him from a hedge earlier that day. That, Harry supposed, and the conspicuous absence of mail from his school friends. If he hadn't known it was impossible he'd swear the Dursleys were somehow behind all of his friends not writing to him. He had gotten nothing from Ron or Hermione, his two best friends, or even Hagrid, who had been the first magical person Harry had ever met. Ron said he'd write to invite him to stay with his family over the break but with the way things were that didn't look like that would ever happen.

After more than a month spent stuck with the Dursleys Harry would've given anything for a bit of mail. Even a taunting note from I'm–better–than–you Draco Malfoy or a grease–stained missive from the evil git of a potions master Severus Snape would've been welcome since it'd at least prove that this whole last year had actually happened.

As he entered his bedroom, intending to flop down on his bed and get an early night, Harry learned that life had other plans for it was at that precise moment that the magical world had decided to pay him a visit.

Harry managed not to shout when he saw the strange little creature on his bed, though it was a close–run thing. The last thing he wanted was his Uncle Vernon to come blundering up here accusing him of ruining his party. There'd be no telling what he'd do.

Instead, Harry stood stock–still and blinked at the little bat–eared creature. The creature's bulging green tennis ball–like eyes blinked back. Harry knew instantly that this had been the thing that had been staring at him from the hedge earlier today. But, what did it want?

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley's voice from the hall below.

"May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

The dinner party had started. Harry closed the door as the creature, clad only in an old pillowcase with rips for its arms and head, slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long nose touched the carpet.

"Harry Potter!" the creature said.

"Er – Hello," he replied.

"So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir..." the creature said. "Such an honor it is..."

"Er – Thank you. Can I help you?" Harry asked.

"Help Dobby!" the spritely creature cried, in a tone Harry was sure would carry downstairs. "Never has someone asked to help Dobby! Dobby has heard of your greatness–" the creature bowed again, "But never has Dobby dreamed to be helped by Harry Potter." The creature looked up at him, eyes alight in adulation.

"Er – Don't mention it," Harry replied, at a loss for how else to respond as he edged his way over to sit on the desk chair next to his snowy owl, Hedwig, still asleep in her cage.

"If I can ask–," Harry said before he stopped himself. He had been intending to ask 'what are you' but now didn't think that would go over too well at all. Instead he finished with "–who are you?"

"Oh!" The creature said nervously. "Apologies, sir. I'm Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house–elf." It picked at its old dirty pillowcase, perhaps thinking it should have changed before coming. Not wanting to make the creature feel any worse, Harry decided to be as civil as possible.

"While I'm very pleased to meet you, Dobby, right now isn't a great time to have a house–elf in my bedroom. I could get into a lot of trouble if my relatives knew you were here."

"Oh!" Dobby squeaked loudly before immediately clasping his hands over his mouth, his eyes darting between Harry and the door before speaking more quietly.

"Apologies, sir. Dobby understands. If Dobby's family knew Dobby was here...," the creature shuddered.

"Your family?" asked Harry curiously.

"The wizarding family Dobby serves, sir. Dobby is a house–elf, bound to serve one house and one family forever."

"And your family doesn't know that you're here?"

Dobby shook his head so quickly his ears were almost slapping against his face.

"Oh, no, sir, no... Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir–! But Dobby had to come," Dobby finished earnestly.

"That's horrible," Harry exclaimed. "Won't they notice if you shut your ears in an oven door?"

"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something. Sometimes they reminds Dobby to do extra punishments..."

Harry couldn't think of anything more horrible. Dobby's family actually made the Dursleys sound warm and cuddly by comparison. While this would probably be a touchy subject, memories of his days spent working like a slave for the Dursleys in a prison he couldn't wait to flee from soon had Harry resolved to help someone else break free from theirs too if he could.

"So why don't you just leave? Escape?" he asked, having asked himself that same thing so many times before.

"Because a house–elf must be set free, sir," Dobby said as if explaining something obvious. "And the family will never set Dobby free... Dobby will serve the family until Dobby dies, sir..." Dobby sniffed and blew his nose on his already soiled pillowcase.

"Isn't there someone else you can call, like the Ministry?" Harry asked appalled. "Surely they can stop it."

"Oh, no, sir, no," Dobby replied. "So long as the family owns Dobby the family can do what they wants."

That gave Harry an idea.

"Do you think they'd sell you, Dobby? Do you think I could buy you?"

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn't spoken as Dobby dissolved into wails.

"Please," Harry whispered frantically as Hedwig perked up and stared disapprovingly at the little noise–maker. "Please be quiet. If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you're here–." Harry chanced a look towards the door. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

"Offend Dobby! Harry Potter asks if he can _buy Dobby_... Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew..." Dobby cried, burying his face in Harry's jeans.

Hedwig turned to look at Harry, as if it were his fault the little guy was here, as Dobby occupied himself by wiping his nose on his already dirty pillowcase as the tears rolled down his cheeks. Harry stood, wanting to give sniffling creature time to pull himself together.

"Wait here, Dobby. I'll be right back," Harry said as he patted the little guy on his head and slipped out the door.

As quietly as he could, Harry made his way to the bathroom and filled a small paper cup with cool water from the tap. He got back into the hall just as his Uncle Vernon reached the end of the Japanese golfer joke he'd been practicing all week.

"–There they found the Japanese man, squatting with his pants down around his ankles!" Vernon said agog.

Harry rolled his eyes.

_"'__What on earth are you doing?!'_ cried the American," Vernon continued. "The Japanese fellow looked up and without pause, replied–"

"Here you go, Dobby," Harry said as he closed the door and handed the little elf the cup of water. "Why don't you sit down and drink this."

The little creature looked at the paper cup as if he had never seen anything so precious.

"Harry Potter served Dobby! And he's been asked to sit down – like an _equal_," Dobby said awestruck.

"Of course you have been; you're my friend."

"A–a friend?" Dobby asked.

"Absolutely. You came here to visit me and you've been nice, which is more than my other friends have done. That makes you my friend," Harry explained, as if to a child.

Once again tears fell from Dobby's eyes.

"Dobby does not deserve to be served by Harry Potter!" Dobby said as he sat the still–full cup of water on the desk. In a flash Dobby had rammed his head against the desk drawers making an ungodly racket.

"_Bad _Dobby! _Bad _Dobby!" he cried, slamming into the desk and spilling water all over himself.

Quickly Harry pulled Dobby away from the desk and placed him on the bed, surreptitiously wiping his now grimy hands on his trousers. The noise from downstairs stilled for a moment and they waited with bated breath before the talk from below started again.

"Harry Potter has been so nice to Dobby!" Dobby said more quietly. "Harry Potter asked to _buy_ Dobby. If Harry Potter knew what Dobby has done he would not be wanting to help him!"

Harry sat down on the bed next to Dobby and put his hand on the creature's cleanest shoulder.

"Why don't you just tell me what all this is about and I'll make that decision for myself."

"Yes, sir. Apologies, sir. Dobby wonders where to begin."

"Does it have anything to do with why you came here?" Harry prompted.

"Oh, yes, sir. Dobby had to come. Dobby had to warn Harry Potter." Dobby seemed to curl himself even smaller and lowered his voice before continuing. "There's a plot," Dobby said conspiratorially. "A plot to make the most terrible things happen. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year! And Dobby thought – that if Harry Potter thought that his friends had forgotten him–."

"So _you're _the reason my friends haven't been writing me?" Harry asked, trying not to let any of the sudden aggravation he felt bleed into his words.

"Yes, sir. And then Harry Potter calls Dobby _friend!"_ Dobby wailed.

"Shush, Dobby. I understand," Harry said, trying to calm the elf by telling it what it obviously wanted to hear. "You were only trying to protect me, which is more than any of my relatives have ever done," he finished sourly.

"Ah, sir!" Dobby cried through his tears. "Harry Potter is not speaking of his mother, sir, who died to protect him!"

That struck Harry to the core. He hadn't thought the elf would speak of that. He didn't even know what to say to that. How could he have forgotten his parents on his birthday? It was all most people talked about around him. His looks, her eyes, they're dead – aren't you happy being famous!

"Harry Potter has braved so many dangers already!" Dobby sniffled, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. "Dobby heard tell that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago... and Harry Potter escaped _yet again_."

Harry nodded.

"Ah, sir," Dobby gasped. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! Harry Potter must _not_ go back to school this year. Terrible things will happen. Harry Potter must stay where he is safe! He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger."

"If I _don't_ go back to Hogwarts, Dobby, then my friends will be in mortal danger. If terrible things _are_ going to happen then I've got to be there to help them. I promise to be on alert, Dobby, but you've got to tell me more. What terrible things? And who's plotting them?"

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then raced to bang his head frantically against the wall.

"All right!" cried Harry, grabbing the elf's arm to stop him. "You can't tell me. I understand. But why are you warning _me?"_ A sudden, unpleasant thought struck him. "Hang on – this hasn't got anything to do with your family, does it? Are they the ones doing the plotting?"

Dobby was as still as a statue, except his eyes which darted between the desk and the nearest wall. He looked torn between punishing himself and terrified that anything he did would be taken as confirmation.

"Sorry, Dobby," Harry said. "Forget I asked. I should have known that you wouldn't be able to answer that one either."

Dobby stiffly sat back down on the edge of the bed, looking very much that he had unknowingly strolled into a minefield and still shooting glances at the desk from time to time.

Harry decided it was time to end it. "I want you to know, Dobby, that you're a very good elf. Thank you for warning me. Now that I know trouble is coming I can warn others and try to avoid it myself. You've done a very good job."

With the questioning seemingly at an end, Dobby finally seemed to relax.

"You've tried to help me, Dobby, and you're my friend. Now I'd like to help you, if I can."

Dobby turned and looked up at him, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Harry Potter is too good for words, sir."

"I understand you probably can't tell me who your family is, but is there someone I could talk to about buying you myself? Is it even possible?" Harry asked.

"It is – possible, sir," Dobby seemed to hunt for words. "Sometimes Dobby must buy things for the family, sir. Small things. They would never trust Dobby with much, sir, but little things like food, quills and ink... There's a place Dobby can go for money. They know Dobby there, sir."

"You mean Gringotts? The bank in Diagon Alley?"

"Oh, yes, sir. They handle the family's money all the time. All the old families have someone there that handles it for them, sir. Dobby's sure–" Dobby said, twisting his ears as if he were trying to twist around his family's rules, "–that if Harry Potter asks around, that is – that Harry Potter could find someone... who knows someone... who knows Dobby's family, sir."

Dobby heaved a sigh of relief. "Dobby's sure _they_ could ask Dobby's family if they would sell Dobby to Harry Potter," he smiled.

"That's great Dobby."

Suddenly Dobby's face was stricken. "But sir! Harry Potter _must not _ask Dobby's family to sell Dobby to him!"

"What? Why not? Don't you want to leave your family?" Harry asked confused.

"Oh, yes, sir. More than anything Dobby would want to work for Harry Potter."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Dobby's family would never sell to Harry Potter, sir. They do not like Harry Potter. If _Harry Potter_ asks the family to sell Dobby, Dobby would likely be _killed!"_ Dobby's hands sprung back over his mouth, as if speaking the dreaded thought would somehow make it come true that instant.

"That's alright, Dobby. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me." Harry tried to comfort the elf. Suddenly, another part of what Dobby said struck him. "Dobby, you said that _all_ the old families have someone there to handle their money?"

"Oh, yes, Harry Potter. That's how they breed their money, sir."

"Well, I have money there, Dobby. Money I got from my parents. That should mean that I've got someone there too, shouldn't it? I don't know who it is, but I could write them and find out. Then _they_ could find someone to find someone to find your family and ask them to sell you without them ever knowing who's buying you. Wouldn't that be alright?"

"Harry Potter would do that for Dobby?" Dobby asked standing.

"Absolutely," Harry smiled.

Dobby beamed.

"But you've got to do something for me though, Dobby," Harry said.

"Anything, sir," Dobby said earnestly.

"I'd like to have my letters back."

Dobby's face fell.

"Do you still have them?" Harry asked.

"Dobby has them here, sir," the elf quietly responded as his ears seemed to wilt.

Slowly Dobby's hand went into his pillowcase and withdrew a thick wad of envelopes. Harry could make out Hermione's neat writing, Ron's untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that had to come from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid. Dobby held them tightly to his chest.

"Please, Dobby?" Harry asked. "I understand that you only want to keep me safe, but I have to keep my friends safe, including you. If I can get those letters then I promise that I'll do everything I can to get your family to sell you to me. After that, you can come with me to Hogwarts and help me keep my friends safe. I'll even introduce you and we can all be friends. What do you say?"

Harry could see that he had reached Dobby and put him between two things he really wanted. He had seen it before on Uncle Vernon, usually when it meant him having to choose between giving Harry something he wanted, meaning he wouldn't be around for a while, or refusing Harry's chance to be momentarily happy, even if it meant he'd still be under foot.

With Uncle Vernon it had always been funny; with Dobby it was just heartbreaking. On one hand Dobby could give up the letters and possibly be free from the family that hated him, only to have to follow Harry into danger, while on the other hand he could keep the letters and try to keep Harry from going to Hogwarts, even if it meant never being with people who liked him.

Slowly the tear–streaked Dobby extended the bundle of letters toward him and put them in Harry's hand.

"My apologies, sir. Dobby never should have done that," Dobby sniffed.

"Don't be sorry, Dobby. If you hadn't, you never would've come here and we never would've been friends."

Dobby gave him a watery smile.

"One last thing, Dobby," Harry said, thinking of a rather large flaw in his plan. "I don't have any quill or parchment. All my stuff is locked up in the cupboard under the stairs. Do you think you could get it for me? That way I could write Gringotts straight away."

Hedwig rattled against the lock on her cage.

"Shh! Sorry, Hedwig, I forgot. She's locked up too. I'd do it myself but I'm not allowed to use magic outside of school," Harry explained.

"Not to worry, sir," Dobby said energetically. "Dobby can do it. House–elves is best at working unnoticed."

Dobby snapped and as quickly and as quietly as that he wafted away like smoke on a breeze, only to return a moment later with Harry's trunk and broom beside him.

"That's brilliant, Dobby. You're amazing! And now Hedwig?"

Dobby nodded, reached through the narrow bars of the owl's cage and wafted them both about a foot away from where they started, leaving only the cage behind.

"Thank you! She's been in there for ages," Harry said as Hedwig gave Dobby an affectionate nip.

"You're most welcome, sir," Dobby said as the snowy owl flew out of the window to finally do some hunting.

"Well, it was very nice to meet you, Dobby, and I hope to see you again very soon," Harry smiled.

"Oh, Dobby is looking forward to it, sir," Dobby replied before disappearing once again.

Harry wished he had been able to learn more about these terrible events that Dobby's family was plotting but since the whole family issue was a big red button that only caused the creature to hurt himself, he figured that he had probably gotten everything he could from the tiny elf. He could only hope that once he had convinced this mysterious family to sell Dobby to him that he'd be able to find out more of what the elf knew.

The jovial sounds from below told Harry that the dinner party had begun to break up. Uncle Vernon must have weaseled his way into that sizable order of drills he'd been looking for and was now shuffling the Masons out the door before the builder could change his mind.

Not wanting his first glimmer of freedom in weeks to be quashed the first time someone opened the door, Harry placed his broom and Hedwig's empty cage inside his wardrobe and hauled his school trunk to the far side of it to hide it from view.

Soon enough Harry heard the heavy thump of Uncle Vernon's footsteps on the stairs. Not wanting him to burn the recently–received letters like he had done the first hundred or so letters from Hogwarts, Harry stashed them underneath his pillow before doing what he had intended to do all along, flopping back on his bed to relax.

He landed just in time for the door to crash open admitting the obese whale in question.

"What the devil are you doing up here!" his uncle bellowed, his mustache bristling.

"Nothing," Harry lied, still slightly bouncing.

"Have you any idea how many times I had to cough to cover your nothing? I wouldn't have been surprised if the Masons had fled thinking we had the plague!"

"It sounded like it went well," Harry said diplomatically, finally coming to a rest.

"No thanks to you!" Vernon roared.

Quickly his uncle's eyes darted around the room.

"Where's that bloody pigeon of yours anyway? You let her out?" he said, noting the open window.

"I didn't," Harry said quickly. "I put her cage in the wardrobe. I think this way she'll be quiet."

"Good! Leave it there. Maybe this way I'll get a decent night's sleep!" Vernon slammed the door as he left making more noise than Harry had the entire rest of the day combined.

Getting ready for bed, Harry stuffed his discarded clothes into the crack below the door. He hoped that blotting out the light coming from his side would make the Dursleys think he'd gone to sleep and leave him alone. At the very least he hoped it would slow any invasion down long enough for him to hide anything he didn't want them to see.

Hedwig landed on the window sill, the mouse she caught dangling from her beak, just as Harry sat down and took out his letters. When he went to open them she dropped her catch, flapped her wings and clicked her beak, looking at him reproachfully.

As he wondered what he had done he remembered. It wasn't what he had done that she disapproved of; it was what he hadn't done. He had told Dobby that he'd write to Gringotts straight away and as soon as the little guy had disappeared Harry had forgotten all about it.

Mentally thumping himself, Harry retrieved quill, ink, and parchment from his trunk and got to work as Hedwig returned to her nightly pursuits. Half an hour later he sat back to review what he'd done.

_'__To Whomever is in Charge of Old Family Accounts at Gringotts:'_ it started, with as much as he could remember that his old teacher, Mrs. Trunchbull, had said concerning how to write a proper business letter.

_'__It has recently come to my attention that virtually every old wizarding family engages your services in managing their money. I don't know if this is the case for me, but if it is, I would like to know who to refer my business dealings to. I have something that needs to be handled discreetly and could certainly make use of their services, should that person exist at all. If such a person does not already exist then I would like to see about setting something like that up.'_

Looking at it again, Harry thought he had covered the basics. There wasn't too much he could say though until he knew who he was dealing with, or if he was dealing with anyone at all. He couldn't really spell everything out before he knew if there was anyone on the other end of things who was actually listening.

One thing still bothered him though. He had been thinking back to whenever Uncle Vernon had to deal with banks and they had always made him come to them in order to discuss anything. Harry hoped it was to insure confidentiality and not so that they could sit there silently judging you before turning you away. He supposed he might be able to get to London if Ron made good on his plan to invite him to stay, but even at the earliest it'd still be days away.

Harry took up his quill again to add one last line.

_'__While I understand that visiting a bank in person for such things is common, I live with muggles and am not able to visit Diagon Alley very often and would prefer them not to know that I have any money. I truly appreciate your help with these concerns._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter'_

Having finished her meal, Hedwig hopped down onto the desk, obviously ready for her first delivery in months. Harry folded up the letter and fastened it to her leg before a brainwave struck.

"Oh, hang on a minute. I've got something else for you too," Harry said.

Taking out a small bit of parchment, he quickly scratched out a blanket notice to his friends.

_'__Thanks so much for writing me and sorry for not responding sooner. Something odd happened which prevented me from getting your letters until just now. I'll tell you all about it when I respond to your actual letters here soon. I just wanted to let you know that I'm still alive and better now than I've been in weeks, so you can expect to see much more of Hedwig in the days to come._

_Hope to see you again soon,_

_Harry'_

He paused for a moment to consider. Just making the round trip to Ron and Hermione, with a quick stop at Gringotts, would probably take Hedwig until tomorrow afternoon to get back, which would mean he would be able to send her back out again tomorrow night or the next morning with replies to their actual letters. Adding a stop to Hogwarts just to let Hagrid know he was going to respond to his letter later would probably push that up to over two full days of flying.

As much as he liked Hagrid, Harry decided that he would have to wait. Once the lines of communication were open hopefully Ron would pull through with his plan and he'd be free from the Dursleys before he knew it. Staying with Ron would free Hedwig up for the longer trip to Hagrid.

With that in mind Harry addressed the note to Ron and Hermione and let Hedwig clasp it with her beak.

"The large one's for Gringotts," Harry yawned. "I'm not sure who's supposed to get it, or even if anyone's there at the moment, but I suppose there must be someone you can leave it with. The smaller one's for both Ron and Hermione. You might want to take it to Hermione first since Ron would probably bin it after reading it."

The owl simply stared at him a moment, as if he would be telling her the correct way to flap her wings next, before swooping silently into the night. Thinking that he might be more tired than he thought to do something that stupid, he decided to save his friends' letters until he was actually awake enough to recognize English as his native tongue.

Harry went to bed with five letters under his pillow and smiled as he drifted off to sleep. It hadn't turned out to be that bad a birthday after all.

.o0O0o.

**AN: ** I really wanted to avoid the "Harry goes to Gringotts" trope and for those who avoid it, don't worry, this is a very different Gringotts than you're used to seeing.

There's also so much complaining in the HP fandom that it was obvious that Harry was abused and how no teacher would've missed the signs that I made Harry's former teacher Mrs. Trunchbull, a character from "Matilda" by Roald Dahl, who would have seen any signs of abuse as the hallmarks of a proper upbringing. It makes me wonder what a crossover like that would be like, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway, thanks for reading.


	2. Early Morning Waffles

**AN:** With Hedwig gone, the Dursleys unsuitable company, and it being days before the Weasleys were due to arrive, there will be very little in the way of conversation as most of this takes place in Harry's head. I've tried to work around that as best I could.

Looking for a disclaimer? Check chapter one. I have no intention of repeating myself.

.o0O0o.

The day was bright and sunlight streamed through the skylights above as Harry surveyed the Surrey Mall. He had never been before and it was everything he had dreamed it would be. A low hum of conversation nearly overrode the music coming from speakers overhead as happy shoppers in their bright clothing carried big bags from one shop to another.

Harry didn't know where to begin; perhaps a clothes shop so he could finally rid himself of Dudley's hand–me–downs? Or perhaps the shoe store to replace the overlarge trainers he had that were peeling at the bottom. Then again, with an opportunity like this, how could he pass up the arcade and the shooting game his cousin raved about: _Lethal Enforcers_? And there was supposed to be a fountain somewhere that shot water up all the way to the third floor!

He was just on his way to the escalators when he heard it – a determined _tap–tap–tap_. Harry looked around but couldn't see what had drawn his attention. Seeing nothing, he went on his way.

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry looked more closely. None of the shoppers showed the slightest concern. Was it common to hear a mysterious tapping noise in malls?

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Finally, he spotted some movement in a nearby window and made a beeline to it.

"Harry Potter!" the caged little creature in the window cried, its big eyes alight with fright.

A large man, which looked suspiciously like Uncle Vernon, reached in and fastened a leash and tiny dog collar around the elf's neck and was now trying to pull the creature out of his cage.

"Get out here, elf!" the man bellowed, giving the leash a good tug.

"No!" Dobby cried, clinging to the bars of his prison for dear life as the collar started to choke him.

_Tap–tap–tap!_ Dobby rapped on the window as Harry tried to find the way into the shop. Where had the door gone!

_Tap–tap–tap!_

"Harry Potter!" _Tap–tap–tap!_ "Harry Potter – must buy Dobby!"

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry woke with a start, finding himself in his own bed. The only thing streaming in these windows was a bit of moonlight. He checked the time finding that only a handful of hours had passed since he had sent off Hedwig.

It was little wonder why Dobby's plight had made its way into his dreams for they certainly seemed the stuff of nightmares. Knowing he had done all he could for the elf at the moment, Harry turned over and pulled his thin single sheet back over him, hoping to get a few Dobby–free dreams before dawn.

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry snatched his glasses from the bedside table and peered around the room. A shadow moved in the moonlight.

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry got up wondering who in the world could have been writing him at four o'clock in the morning. Immediately Harry discarded that idea. No one in the world writes letters in the middle of the night, he's just unused to getting any of them.

Opening the window Harry wasn't too surprised to see a tan tawny owl staring up at him. What did unnerve him was the biggest pair of black eyes he had ever seen doing the staring.

"Er – Hello," Harry said, untying the envelope from its leg as the eyes followed his every move.

"Would you like some water or maybe an owl tre–" he didn't bother finishing the offer since the owl left immediately once its burden was removed.

Seeing the handwriting Harry knew that there actually was someone who writes letters in the middle of the night. It was from Hermione. The owls had definitely made good time.

Harry flipped on his bedroom light and sat at his desk, eager to see what had been so urgent.

_'Harry,_

_Thanks so much for writing. Happy belated birthday by the way. It's good to know you're doing well; I was starting to fear the worst. The owl that I'm sure flew off straight away was called Imogen. You have no idea how lucky you are to have such a personable owl as Hedwig._

_About my letters, you really don't need to bother with them. Basic stuff really. How's your summer, I've been studying, were you going to visit Ron; that sort of thing. It's probably best if you just binned them._

_Anyway, next year's book list should be out any day now. We're going shopping in Diagon Alley the Wednesday after. You'd probably be at Ron's by then, I would think, that way we could all meet up and focus on next year. Let me know what you think._

_Your Friend, Hermione'_

He read the letter again. Something about it just didn't sit right with him. Something was just… off. The first and last parts were what he'd expect from a summer letter. It was pretty much the same as he saw other people get in movies.

That second part though, reading that bit a third time started to make his skin crawl._ 'You really don't need to bother with them… It's probably best if you just binned them.'_ That didn't sound like Hermione to him at all. She had never been one to throw any sort of information away, even "basic stuff," so why would she want him to do so now?

Thinking that there was nothing left to do but take a look at the offending letters, Harry reached under his pillow and retrieved the now slightly rumpled stack. He quickly separated the two from Hermione and opened one at random.

_'Harry,_

_I know what must be going on in your mind right now. Believe me, I understand. You should also know that we're friends and I wouldn't want that to change for the world. Please respond. We'll be in school with each other for the next six years, I certainly wouldn't want there to be any awkwardness between us._

_I know Ron's invited you to stay with him this summer. You should accept. There's no reason something between us should affect his friendship with you. I'm sure you'll have a good time and I'll see you both on the train in September._

_I hope you have a happy birthday and a pleasant summer._

_Hermione'_

Harry didn't know where in time this letter came from in relation to the others but he was pretty sure what had happened. She and Ron must have had a fight. No doubt she'd think that Ron had told him all about it and now she thought that his silence was him being worried that he would feel like he'd have to choose one side or the other.

This was Hermione was giving him an out, Harry decided. She was choosing to keep the fight strictly between herself and Ron, saying that she knew how he'd be feeling but didn't want him to feel like he had to choose. She even wanted him to go through with Ron's plan, meaning she's okay with them being friends and _'wouldn't want there to be any awkwardness,'_ even if, by the sound of the ending, that she didn't plan to see or hear from them again all summer. Though he supposed her mentioning meeting up with them on the train said that she held out hope for reconciliation.

If there had been a fight, and his continued silence had pushed them together again out of worry, that would explain why she told him not to bother with the letters, Harry reasoned. If the fight was already over then of course she wouldn't want to risk ruining his summer telling him that it happened in the first place.

Harry didn't think it would've ended that quickly and easily though. The troll incident last year showed that Hermione'd forgive you in a second if you showed even a hint that you knew that you were wrong. You didn't even have to say the words. Ron, however, was a lot more stubborn about it. His reluctance even to look for her that Halloween, after his name–calling had sent her into that bathroom crying, told him that without a troll looming over you it'd take a long, drawn–out battle of wills to get Ron to even give that hint and he doubted the silence coming from Privet Drive counted for much.

That left two letters from Ron, one from Hermione, Harry reckoned. One from both to tell him their side of the fight – Hermione's telling him not to worry and Ron's inviting him to stay and join his side – and one from Ron to tell him to forget the fight and to come over anyway.

Hoping for a breath of fresh air, Harry read the letter from Hagrid instead.

_'Harry,_

_Ron and Hermione are sayin that yer not answerin any of their letters. Don need me nocking down any doors now, do ya? Let'em know yer alright or if'n you need me ta pay those Dursleys a visit. 'Ermione's goin' mad with worry. Hope ya have a Happy Birthday. If'n I don hear from you by tha end o' August, expect a very big bang on yer fron' door come the First._

_Hagrid_

_P.S. Had som'thin for ya but it looks like it et thru its cage. I'll see if I can find you another'n. Happy Birthday!'_

While he was sorry that Hagrid had been pulled into any drama Dobby had caused, Harry was glad he was taking it so well. The image of Hagrid showing up on Privet Drive on the back of Fluffy, his giant three–headed dog, with another baby dragon under his arm, and knocking down his door to rescue him from his beastly relatives certainly put a smile on Harry's face. It was probably for the best though that his present had made a break for freedom because after seeing what kind of pets Hagrid thought acceptable Harry had no intention of meeting of the sort any time soon.

He'd definitely have to send Hedwig out with a letter thanking him for the offer, and to tell him that he really didn't have to get him anything for his birthday. _'Especially something that could eat through a cage,'_ Harry thought.

If Hagrid could put a smile on his face after the summer he's had, Harry knew that the loveable giant could certainly help smooth out whatever disagreement Ron and Hermione may have had – and had probably already done so. Again, he didn't mention a fight, but since it was a birthday letter it's doubtful Hagrid would've wanted to dampen his spirit by mentioning it.

Halfway through his letters it was a simple thing that tipped the scales: Ron's letters were thin while Hermione's was thicker than both of Ron's combined. Deciding to save the longest for last, Harry opened Ron's first letter.

_'Hiya Harry,_

_Can you believe we've got almost three whole months without Malfoy and Snape? I never thought I'd be so glad to be back here in all my life!_

_Still, it'd be better if you were here though. It can get pretty dull just doing chores and having your little sister ask a thousand and one questions a day about what you're really like. I just tell her to go to her room and read her stupid books. Hopefully she'll get as bad as Percy; he's shut up in his room alone for hours now, not that I'm complaining._

_I swear though, half my family's getting as bad as Hermione. Did you know she's already studying for next year? I mean, we can't do magic and haven't even got our books yet! What do you think of her? Bloody mental, I say._

_Well, Errol looks fit enough to fly again so I guess I should wrap this up. Dad's fine with you coming to stay with us but doesn't know when he can swing a trip to the muggles to get you. I'll keep hounding him though. Hopefully we'll get you here in time for your birthday._

_Ron'_

It was nice to think about Ron's family wanting him there for his birthday, especially since he hadn't even met half of them yet. He was having some doubts about his fight theory though. Sure, Ron's against studying when he doesn't have to but Harry doubted things would've escalated enough to be called a fight over it, let alone result in any "awkwardness," as Hermione put it.

He hoped Ron's next letter would help clear things up.

_'Hiya Harry,_

_Don't know if you got my first letter or not. Errol looked more tuckered out than usual when he got back and it wouldn't be the first time the old coot dropped a letter. When I told her you hadn't wrote back Hermione said she sent you one too. Maybe that's why Errol looks dead. Does Hermione even have an owl?_

_Can you believe she's already onto us about our homework? We've got two whole months left! I said it before, mate, she's bloody mental. Nosy is what she is. What do you think, and what'd she say to you anyway?_

_I let slip that you hadn't had a proper birthday so now Mum's all on board for having you around before then if we can swing it. Dad's been bogged down at work a lot so who knows when they'd find the time. Fred and George said we should just steal the car and fly there ourselves and if we miss your birthday we might just have to do that._

_Anyway, hope to see you soon and don't do any more work than you have to!_

_Ron'_

This letter did more to damage his fight theory than anything else. Sure, Ron seemed a bit more agitated about being prodded into studying, but that might've just been for something to say or get a response. Calling Hermione 'bloody mental' and 'nosy' certainly wasn't the way to keep a friendship going though. Harry was beginning to wonder if there ever had been a fight at all. But if there hadn't, what had Hermione's second better–to–bin–them letter been about?

Harry didn't think Ron had any ground to stand on to call anyone nosy though since he tried to find out what Hermione had said to him in the first place. He doubted Ron had ever heard the phrase "pot calling the kettle black" but reckoned if he threw in 'cauldron' for 'kettle' he'd get the gist.

His theory now horribly strained, Harry opened the last letter, hoping he hadn't built this whole thing up over nothing.

_'Dear Harry,'_ Hermione started. _'I hope your summer's going well. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to talk my parents into stopping by Diagon Alley on our way out of London so I'm afraid it's going to be a very long ten weeks for me until school starts back.'_

Harry actually smiled at that. Leave it to Hermione to think that ten whole weeks without a new book to be the definition of a grueling summer.

_'Luckily there's always homework,'_ she continued. _'I've also taken the liberty to write professors McGonagall and Flitwick asking if there was anything I could do in the meantime to prepare for next year. Hopefully they'll write back with something, though hoping they respond with copies of the relevant texts would probably be too much to ask.'_

Harry had to cover his mouth for fear that any escaping laughter would draw the Dursleys down on him like a pack of hungry hippos. He wouldn't put it past Hermione to try and set up some sort of owl delivery summer check–out program for the library as soon as she got back, just to make sure this never happened again. _'A book a day's just an owl away!'_ Harry thought humorously.

_'Perhaps you could use this opportunity to _actually do_ the History of Magic reading you were supposed to this year? That was a joke, by the way. It'd be nice to think you would but I don't honestly expect you to do that. I'm not sure Ron gets that there _are_ times when I'm somewhat less than completely serious.'_

_'Speaking of vexing concerns,'_ Harry could almost see her eyes rolling and lips thinning in frustration here, _'there's been an issue weighing on me that I hesitate to bring up.'_

Harry sat up in his chair. He had been right after all it seemed; there wasn't just "basic stuff" here.

_'I tried addressing it while you were still in the Hospital Wing but that led to a rather awkward conversation with Ron. I know that I shouldn't have given the conversation we just had, but under the circumstances I really didn't have anywhere else to turn, so I asked him to ask you about it. I don't know whether he has or not but it's time to pluck up that Gryffindor courage I'm supposed to have and simply do it myself. I apologize in advance if I start to ramble or go on tangents, it's not often I write without a concrete outline.'_

Harry smiled and shook his head.

_'I suppose it all started during those three days you were in the hospital wing – I'm so sorry, by the way, I never should have left you to face You–Know–Who alone. As soon as I saw Professor Dumbledore I _knew_ that Snape would have made those potion bottles refill themselves somehow. How else was that trap supposed to work an indeterminate number of times, let alone let Professor Dumbledore pass through after you had?'_

She had a really good point there; Harry had to give her that. How could they have missed it? Then again, they were more concerned with Ron being knocked unconscious and the possibility of Harry's own imminent death to really give the matter much thought at the time.

_'I suppose it'd be more precise to say that it started last Halloween, and that I had only _realized_ what was happening later on. You see, all my life I've been driven to prove to myself __**and others–**__,'_ she added in a nasty scrawl, nearly tearing the parchment with the force she used. _'–that I'm good enough._

_You didn't just save my life that night, Harry, you changed it. Before then, I never really had a friend. I never really saw the point in them besides having someone to review with. Even then no study buddy I had ever seemed to be able to do that for very long before wanting to run off and play and I always had far too much to do to let myself join them._

_That's what you did that night. I don't know if it was the shock of almost dying or the fact that you jumped ten feet in the air just to get the troll away from me, but whatever it was you became the one person in the entire castle that I was comfortable with. I didn't have to push myself to learn everything right now. I still studied, but that was to show snots like Malfoy that they weren't better than everyone just because of an accident of birth._

_For the first time though I had people around me I liked, people who liked me, and I was able to just give time to myself too. I read what I was interested in, not just to supplement what we learned in class, and even went out with the rest of the House to watch you play Quidditch. I'll never get how the game's supposed to be competitive when catching one ball is enough to score as many points as fifteen goals combined, but while I'm watching I found that I don't care!_

_This last year has been an amazing one for me, and it all started that night. I'm just now starting to see a completely different route that my life could take, one where I could do things for myself – not just because they're expected of me. All of those possibilities came crashing down when I left you to face You–Know–Who alone._

_It was only then that I realized just how central a figure you had become for me. I know it sounds corny but I honestly couldn't imagine what my life would be like without you. It certainly wouldn't be anything good. I also realized just how little I actually knew about you. I guess what I'm saying – in a roundabout way – is that you've really impressed me, Harry, and I would like to get to know you better. Whether that evolves into something more later on – would certainly be a possibility worth looking into._

_Always Yours, Hermione'_

_'Well_,' Harry thought as his face began turning a brilliant shade of Gryffindor red. _'That certainly wasn't about a fight_.'

Harry sat at his desk, mind was reeling from what he had just learned as a new day's sun started to peek over the horizon. Hermione liked him. _Hermione_ liked him. Hermione liked _him_. Hermione _liked_ him. _Hermione_ liked _him_.

It didn't seem to add up. No one had ever liked him before. Well, a couple of girls had shown concern when he had first gotten beat up by Dudley at school but when his cousin had turned on them they quickly learned it was best not to be involved. Certainly no one had ever _liked him_ liked him.

_Hermione liked him_. Harry was really at a loss. How do you respond to something like that? He certainly couldn't ask the Dursleys for advice, they'd simply shout _"We don't need any more freaks!"_ and lock him back in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of his life.

What he really needed was someone he could talk to about it – someone, preferably, who already knew because he certainly wasn't looking forward to explaining it. Suddenly he remembered: Ron knew. Hermione had said he knew; said she had talked to him about it. Harry pulled out Ron's letters and quickly scanned them again.

It was right there, in both letters, when he was talking about Hermione: _'what do you think of her?'_ That Ron had asked him what he thought of Hermione rather than telling him that Hermione had said she liked him struck Harry as a bit odd. _'Then again_,' Harry thought, '_Hermione did ask Ron to_ ask him _about it_. _Maybe what she asked was for him to find out what I thought of her?'_

Ron certainly could've done it better. Harry hadn't thought he had been asking it to try and get an actual answer. Why else would he have put in how _'bloody mental'_ and _'nosy'_ he thought she was? It certainly looked like Ron was against the idea of getting to know Hermione any better. Heck, Ron was probably regretting knowing her as much as they already did with all his complaining about her encouraging them to do their homework.

_'Of course she'd want us to do our work_,' Harry reckoned. _'__Hermione said she had always pushed herself; obviously she'd want anyone close to her to do well._' Harry felt the heat rise on his face again. Of course she'd want _him_ to do well since she _'wanted to get to know him better_.'

Harry didn't know what he thought about that. Sure, he thought his History of Magic textbook had been fascinating, but that was before getting stuck in a room and bored to death by a long–dead ghost. Potions was a good deal like cooking, which he was good at and didn't mind, but it was difficult to even get through the class with Snape sniping at him for simply existing.

Herbology reminded him of being forced to do all the Dursleys' gardening far too much for it to be enjoyable. Transfiguration was interesting, but taxing. An hour of that and he was glad of any excuse to think of something else for a good long while. Charms was always good for a diversion though the less said about Astronomy the better. It was always too cold, too cloudy, and too hard to stay awake. What did knowing the names of stars have anything to do with magic anyway? And couldn't they learn all that from studying maps during the daytime?

Flying had been thrilling but you really couldn't call that a proper class. It was only held a few times – until they were sure you could mount a broom without killing yourself – and with him being tapped for the Gryffindor Quidditch team straight away he had only gone the one time. Harry wondered if Hermione had been forced to go to all four sessions or if she had simply refused to go again. She didn't seem the type to trust her life to something as wobbly as an old school broom.

Defense had been fun, even funny with Quirrell's timidness and stutter. Both of those had been lies, of course, and he couldn't really say they had learned anything that important, much less how to defend themselves. Then again, having Lord Voldemort growing out of the back of the professor's head probably went a long way to explaining that. It seemed strange to him that the worst thing about Hogwarts, aside from the potential to be killed, were bad teachers that discouraged you from learning anything useful.

Harry knew he was waffling. The issue wasn't what he thought about classes, it was what he thought about her. Hermione was… well, Hermione. She was a friend. She was nice to be around. She was – then it clicked. She was someone he was comfortable with. Ron was a friend too, but with him he always felt like there was a whole host of things he was missing out on, so much that he didn't know.

With Hermione, it was like they were the same. Two kids, straight from the muggle world, who didn't have a clue that magic existed and now they're thrown into a completely different world and having to face things on their own. They were learning everything at the same time, it was new to them, while with Ron – with Ron it was old hat; he and his brothers had grown up knowing about trolls and goblins and giants and dragons, so how could any of that be interesting?

Harry felt his mind take a sharp left turn. _'Was that why Ron didn't care about studying?'_ Harry wondered. _'__Had he lived in the wizarding world so long that he already gets the gist of it and didn't see the need to learn anything more about it?'_ Looking at his own life Harry could see how the same really applied to him. He had grown up in the muggle world and knew about electricity, airplanes, football, and television but couldn't begin to explain how they worked or why they worked. Moreover, he would be hard pressed to care about figuring any of that out.

He definitely needed to pay more attention to his schoolwork, Harry decided. If he was going to be leaving the Dursleys and the muggle world behind one day then he had to learn everything he could about the wizarding one. Treating it like it didn't matter would only leave him with the worst of both. He'd have a head full of stuff from one world that wasn't going to help him and the attitude that he didn't need to know anything about how things worked now. He might as well open his vault at Gringotts and shout _"please take advantage of me!"_

_'Waffling again,_' Harry thought. _'This is about Hermione._'

Hermione was, Harry reckoned, the one bit of normalcy at Hogwarts. He almost recoiled at the thought. _'__Normal isn't bad,_' Harry reminded himself. _'It's the_ Dursleys _who are abnormal with their obsession with being normal._' Ron, Fred, and George were certainly normal guys, as far as Harry could tell; normal for the wizarding world that is, but Hermione – she was his kind of normal.

He hadn't realized it until now, but he had found it comforting to know that there was someone else there that had been through everything he'd been through, who knew all the stuff he knew, and didn't know all the stuff he didn't know. She was like a portable little island of calm when he's facing something new.

_'Well_,' Harry thought, _'__she was more like that stony spit of rock with the storm beating down on us that Uncle Vernon had dragged us to last year when it came to exams–,_' but he figured that there were limits to what even magic could do for that. She seemed to be willing to try though. She wanted to get to know him – and presumably for him to get to know her, and even seemed to be up for a bit of fun, if her bit about Quidditch and taking time for herself was to be believed.

He smiled. She wanted to get to know him – just him; just Harry – not the Boy–Who–Lived. He was sure that Hermione knew more than he did about pretty much everything, and he was sure that there had to be loads of differences between them, but with everyone else only seeing him as a _scar_ how could he not give it a try?

Suddenly Harry got a sinking sense of dread and pulled out her second letter._ 'I know what must be going on in your mind,'_ she wrote._ 'I understand… We're friends and I wouldn't want that to change – Please respond. I certainly wouldn't want there to be any awkwardness between us.'_

He was going to say no and didn't want to. Or, at least she took his silence as him not wanting to say no and therefore wasn't saying anything at all. _'__And really,_' Harry thought, '_how else was she supposed to take getting nothing but silence after sending a letter like that?'_ It had to take a lot to tell someone what they meant to your life, but to then be left hanging out there for weeks…

Harry also noticed that he had gone from _'Dear Harry'_ to just_ 'Harry'_ and she had gone from _'Always Yours'_ to simply_ 'Hermione._' He couldn't imagine what it took for her to write that first letter, but to write him _again_ saying that it was okay that he didn't like her back – _'__Certainly makes my summer seem pleasant by comparison,_' Harry thought.

He picked up the letter she had sent tonight. _'__That definitely explains why she tried to stop me from reading it,_' Harry reckoned. She had already gone through the agony of him not–saying no, only to learn that he had never got the chance to not–say no in the first place. _'__No wonder she said it was all "basic stuff,"'_ Harry thought. _'__She didn't want to have to go through all that again – for real this time. She didn't want to risk not being "Your Friend, Hermione."'_

_'Like that would ever happen_,' he answered himself. If Harry didn't already know how he was going to respond – even if he didn't have a clue what he was going to say – this would have cinched it.

Harry was half way to his trunk for parchment when the door to his bedroom took a mighty lurch forward and came to an abrupt stop. He bolted back to his desk and scrambled to get everything stashed safely out of sight.

"What the devil is wrong with this door?" his Aunt Petunia demanded quietly.

Harry peeked curiously through the tiny crack in his defenses. "Er – Sorry, Aunt Petunia," he lied, not sorry in the slightest. "Must not have been watching where I threw my clothes last night."

"Yes, well – pick them up," she said acidly. "And get downstairs and start on breakfast. And be quiet," she hissed, "Dudley and Vernon are having a bit of a lie–in."

He closed the door to get ready for the day as Aunt Petunia padded away. _'__Dudley and Vernon are always having a lie–in,_' Harry thought to himself. _'__That's half the reason they got so fat._'

As he reached the kitchen Harry knew what he was making today. For once he didn't care what the Dursleys wanted. Today, he was making waffles.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Since one person's already pointed it out, I know there's no such thing as the Surrey Mall, that was supposed to be a subtle clue that things weren't what they seemed to be.

Thanks for reading.


	3. Banging Along

**AN:** There's a fair bit of wordplay in this chapter which may strike some people as odd. If you think of it though, with only one newspaper, one wireless station, and a handful of highly targeted magazines – they're going to have to come up with some way to entertain themselves.

.o0O0o.

Saturday breakfast at the Dursleys' was its usual long affair, made more so by it being served in bed to the two whales in residence. Second and third helpings, all lovingly carried up to them by a gushing Aunt Petunia, left them mostly out of sight and even helped him grab some bit of it to eat himself while his aunt was away. It was well into morning when all the plates had been washed, dried, and put back into their proper places – all by Harry, of course.

With Uncle Vernon taking Dudley out for a new video game – in payment for his stellar performance in boot–licking the night before – Harry hoped that being run ragged the day before would provide him some time to himself so he could start writing his replies. His aunt seemed to have different plans for him though.

"Since you're done you can stop lazing about," the horse–faced woman started. "Go upstairs, get your things, and start a load of laundry. Then take out the trash and make yourself scarce. I don't want to see you until it's done."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry gave his rote response as he made his way back to his room.

For the second time in as many days Harry opened his door to find something waiting on him. A large, disgruntled–looking black owl stood imperiously at his open window. It called to him loudly, as if offended that it had been kept waiting.

"And keep that bird quiet!" his Aunt Petunia called up after him.

"Sorry about that," Harry told the owl, closing the door behind him. "I wasn't expecting any more mail."

Relieved of its burden the beast started nipping at the drawer he had stashed everything in earlier.

"You want an owl treat? Hang on, I'll get you something."

Harry dug out the bag he kept his wizarding money in. He had always kept something for Hedwig in there too. Letting the bird root through and take its fill Harry concentrated on his letter. The owl soon departed with its prize: it had a solid silver sickle clutched in its beak.

_'Leave it to a bank to charge me postage,_' Harry grumbled in his head.

_'To: Account–Holder H. J. Potter_

_Re: Your Inquiry_

_Thank you for contacting Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley. Your letter has been quite informative and brought forward many issues worthy of discussion. Your hereditary account is currently in the charge of F.M. Gropegold. His practice is to arrive for work shortly after 10 o'clock. Upon a preliminary review it appears that the first of August is a very important time for your account and would suggest seeing your Financial Manager immediately upon his entry._

_Due to strictures placed upon us by the Ministry, we are unable to provide non–employee human transport. I am reliably informed that emergency wizarding transport already exists in the form of the Knight Bus and that casting forth your wand from any street curb should summon the vehicle to you. Please note that they do not accept cheques or promises of payment._

_Gringotts looks forward to your visit,_

_Overseer Barchoke, Hereditary Accounts'_

Not sure _how_ today was supposed to be important, Harry wondered if he could really do it. _'__Could I really slip away?'_

"Laundry! _Now!"_ his aunt bellowed from below.

Harry's mind was made up. He was going. Today. Now.

He crammed the letter into his money pouch and crammed that in his pocket. Out from the drawer came his letters and things and quick as a flash they were tossed into his trunk. The trunk itself was another huge problem. Getting the trunk out of the house without his Aunt Petunia noticing was going to be impossible, even without his broom slung over his shoulder, and unless he happened to stumble into the Weasleys in the middle of Diagon Alley it'd be pointless to even try.

As much as he hated it, Harry knew he'd have to come back.

A few more moments had his wand, Hogwarts robes, and his dad's old invisibility cloak retrieved. Thinking for a moment, Harry removed Hedwig's cage and his Nimbus 2000 from the wardrobe and set them on top of the trunk, carefully arranging the cloak to cover everything.

With his wand up his sleeve, money in his pocket, and Hogwarts robes stuffed unceremoniously into his bulging hand–me–downs, Harry scraped together whatever bits of laundry he had and was out of his room before his aunt could bellow again.

"Hop to it, before I think of something else for you to do," his aunt said as Harry made his way back downstairs. "And don't forget the trash."

Throwing his odds and ends in the wash with a splash of detergent and hitting the button, Harry made his way to the kitchen, glad to have some legitimate reason to go outside. As soon as he was out the back door the trash was dropped and he bolted for the back hedge. Aiming for the well–worn passage Dudley and his gang had made years before, Harry found himself in the alleyway beyond. Turning left, he made his way towards Magnolia Crescent, the nearest side street he could get to that was out of sight of Privet Drive.

There was a thrill of excitement in the air as he stole a glance around to make sure he couldn't be seen. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Harry took out his Gringotts letter to check what he had to do. _'Casting forth your wand from any street curb should summon the vehicle to you.'_ Hoping there wasn't some special incantation he was supposed to do Harry took out his wand and pointed it towards the street.

With a bang like a canon blast a giant purple triple–decker bus exploded into view as Harry leapt back in surprise. Harry saw some disheveled faces peek out of the bus windows to see where they had landed. In no time at all a pimply young man jumped out and recited his company line.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I'm Stan Shunpike and I'll be your conductor for this eav–morning."

"You're real," Harry said, still in awe of the giant magical bus in the heart of muggle Surrey.

"Last time I checked," the young man said with a grin. "You gettin' in or not?"

"Absolutely!"

"Well, hop in then," Stan gestured to the door beside him.

If the outside had been impressive the inside was even more bizarre. Large chintz chairs in various patterns were strewn about in no particular order and several witches and wizards looked to be picking up their shopping where it had fallen when they stopped. One old wizard looked to be… wet.

The door closed and the young man grabbed a shiny silver hand–hold.

"Take 'er away, Ern."

Bang! Harry found himself thrown back into the crush of chintz chairs. Seeking safety in one of them Harry pulled his feet and legs up away from the rampaging recliners.

The young man named Stan made his way over.

"So where'bouts choo headed?"

"Gringotts," a breathless Harry said.

"Leaky Cauldron close enough?" Stan asked as another bang had them rambling down a distant country lane. Stan slightly swayed.

"Perfect," Harry replied.

"'Leven sickles ter get 'choo there," Stan said, seemingly unaware of the bus's turbulence. "Firteen gets you 'ot choc'let. No, wait," he corrected himself. "That's only at nigh'. By day it's tea."

Glancing at the wet wizard from before, who now had a greenish twinge to him as he swayed back and forth, Harry decided against the tea and handed over the lesser amount.

"You have a loo?" Harry asked, feeling the lump of his Hogwarts robes behind him.

"In the back," Stan replied, handing Harry his ticket.

"Thanks."

Keeping a firm hand on anything remotely stable, Harry stumbled his way to the back of the bus where he found the lavatory blessedly empty. It was ten turbulent minutes before Harry had his robes on properly and he considered just ditching his hand–me–downs until he thought of trying to explain to the Dursleys why he was wearing robes when he got back there.

Blessedly soon – though not soon enough to save him from more bumps and bruises – Stan was calling out their arrival at the Leaky Cauldron. It was on wobbly legs that Harry found himself in front of the grimy London pub.

"Righ' then, be good," Stan called before the giant purple passage to paralyzation banged its way off again.

"Is it always like that?" Harry asked the green–tinted wizard that had gotten off when he did.

"Better than Apparition," was all the man said as he wobbled his way indoors.

The wizarding world, Harry decided, was insane. _'__But at least they're not the Dursleys,_' he added as an afterthought.

The Leaky Cauldron was as dark and dingy as ever and Harry wondered if they ever cleaned. The hunch–backed gap–toothed barman smiled his way over, pointing at Harry's school robes.

"Bit early for that, innit?"

"Better early than late," Harry said embarrassed, wishing he had thought to hide his Gryffindor crest before entering for all the attention he was getting. _'__At least it's better than looking like a deflated rhinoceros,_' he reminded himself.

"Think I could go through?" he asked, pointing towards the back.

"Sure thing," the barman smiled. "This way."

Soon enough the back wall was opened and he was in Diagon Alley proper. _'__Made it with time to spare,_' Harry thought glancing at his watch to find it just past nine.

The feeling from his dream the night before returned and a smile crept onto his face. He had almost an hour before he had to go to Gringotts and he still had money in his pocket. There might not be an arcade or a three–story fountain but there were no screaming Dobbys in the windows either. This wasn't an opportunity Harry was going to waste.

The small shop directly to his right had a large wooden shoe over a sign saying Cadogans Cordwainery. Deciding anything was better than another day in Dudley's peeling leftovers Harry stepped inside.

He had been expecting to see rows upon rows of shelves, filled to the brim with every sort of shoe imaginable, what he found was a small, balding mustachioed man dozing in a chair and footprints on the wall. The smell of leather hung heavy over everything.

"Come in, come in!" the man cried now cheerily awake. "We're open."

"Er – You sell shoes?" Harry asked, uncertain he had interpreted the sign correctly.

"We _make_ shoes," the man replied hustling Harry over to the chair. "Cooper Cadogan of Cadogan's Cordwainery. The finest footwear money can buy, lovingly crafted by masters of the trade. Come wrap your feet in Adadan leather from Argentina or Mungohide from Ouagadougou and you'll wonder how you ever walked without it."

"Of course," the man said with a twinkle in his eye, "young men like yourself are always looking for a bit of flash. We've also got a nice young dragonhide straight from the Romanian wilds."

"Er–," Harry said uncertainly. He certainly didn't want to run into Hagrid while wearing a pair of Norbert–skin shoes.

"I have to warn you though, they aren't cheap. The best Adadan goes for seventeen – but since it's you I'll let it go for twelve."

Harry had the distinct impression he meant twelve gold galleons, which was more than his wand cost. _'__It would be the most expensive thing I had ever bought,_' Harry realized, but then he thought– "Why not?" he said. _'__It was only one galleon for every year I've been alive,_' Harry reckoned. _'__Happy Birthday to me._'

"That's the ticket," Mr. Cadogan said with a smile as Harry fished out the money.

"Customer!" the man called and two knobby–kneed creatures wrapped in towels came shuffling out of a back room.

"You have house–elves?" Harry asked.

"Oh yes. Ungo's and his family have been serving the shop for – How long's it been? Two hundred years?" the man asked the elf.

"Three," the older elf croaked in his bullfrog voice, holding up four fingers as the younger one removed Harry's trainers and traced his feet onto parchment.

"Three hundred, bless'em! Good thing they're here too," he said to Harry. "Finding good leather is where I've got it laced up but I'm _pants_ when it comes to shoes," Cadogan said with a wink.

"And do you like working here?" Harry asked them.

"Best boots to buy," Ungo grunted with what Harry thought was a hint of pride.

"Boots or shoes?" the younger elf asked Ungo.

"Boots or shoes?" Ungo asked Cadogan.

"Boots or shoes?" Cadogan asked Harry.

"B–_Shoes_ will be fine," Harry told the elves.

"Had Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, in here for a nice pair of shoes the other day," Cadogan said as he sat on a short stool and Ungo and his friend went to work. "Bowler–hat green he wanted them. Charged him extra 'cause he's an idiot. That's him there." Cadogan pointed to a pair of tiny footprints on the wall.

"Color?" Ungo asked.

"Er– Black," Harry said.

"Had that author fellow too, what was his name? Lockhead, Lockheed – Lock–something," the shopkeeper said with a wave. "Lock up your daughters around that one. If anything, he was _worse_. Dimmer than a two year old's _lumos_."

"A what?" Harry asked.

"Little light spell," Cadogan explained pulling out his wand and igniting the tip. He waved it around like a flashlight before extinguishing it with a _nox_.

"Don't bother looking for him up there," he waved at the wall. "Wouldn't have him there if he paid me – and he did," Cadogan joked. "If anything he put in his books actually happened I'll eat his boots. Lilac indeed."

"Speaking of–" Cadogan said, buoyed back into positive spirits once more. "Used to have your headmaster, Dumbledore, come in for boots 'til about ten years ago," Cadogan continued, pointing to a long pair of feet on the wall by Fudge.

"Guess he reckoned he was over a hundred and wouldn't be living too much longer and stopped. Pity, that. He was always good for a sale. High–heeled, pointed–toed, any color of the rainbow. You name it, he bought it. Never saw an outfit he disliked; always had to match. Hated to see him go.

"There's one of your Hogwarts types I really want to get," the large man said conspiratorially. "Professor Snape. Now, now–" he said when Harry recoiled. "Just because he's more curdled than putrefied potion doesn't mean the man can't do with a nice pair of shoes. Always thought his must be pinching something awful to be as bad as he is. Do the world a world of good to get him in that chair."

Harry smiled, more at the man's easy manner and simple solutions than the thought of an extra spring in Snape's step.

"I was curious," Harry said hoping to guide the conversation to more relevant topics. "How did your family come by your elves?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Cadogan said with a wave. "Family on the way down, selling anything they can afford to lose – then everything they can't – to those with a bit of coin to spare. Has to be the best thing my family's ever done to take them in," he finished with a smile to the elves.

"I heard some are downright nasty to their elves," Harry said neutrally.

Cadogan pulled a face.

"They'd be a twisted sort to be mean to an elf. They're _family_," the man replied. "I grew up with Ungo here. My kids grew up with his–"

The younger elf waved a hammer at Harry before returning to work.

"The only one who'd ever be mean to an elf is one who doesn't know what a proper family is," Cadogan finished.

"My brother," the man began again, back in his chipper tone, "he's got a couple of Ungo's kids with him – turns out they were all thumbs when it came to shoes–"

Harry saw Ungo shake his head sadly.

"–So Carl took those two with him to break into the elf–made wine market. Guess he hopes those thumbs are green, eh?"

And with that the conversation was back on its whirlwind tour of topics. Harry didn't mind, he found it a very easy way to spend the time. Not having to add anything to the conversation gave him a very interesting look at the wizarding world. No one ever thought about the man who made their shoes let alone what he thought of things.

Just as Harry was beginning to get nervous about the time, Ungo and his son – who Harry had learned was named Mungo after the animal hide they used – which in turn was named for a wizarding explorer relative of some famous healer – presented Cadogan with their finished work.

"Oh, well look at that! My how time flies," Cadogan cried.

After a bit of prodding from the shop owner's wand, each shoe was declared ready for wear.

"You wrap your feet in these," he said, "and tell me you've felt the like."

Harry's feet were in heaven. They had died, gone to heaven, and were never coming back. It was like he had stuck his feet into a warm stiff pudding. The only word he could think to describe how it felt was supple.

"That's the black Adadan they went with for the outside, sole looked to be Mungo. Charmed to reduce wear and any sort of smell. Should do you fine in rain or snow, plenty of grip – just don't go swimming in them. Well, what do you think?" he prompted.

"They're the best shoes I've ever had," Harry said honestly.

"Splendid," Cadogan smiled. "You want me to do for these?" he asked, gesturing to the remains of Harry's trainers with his wand.

"Er– No, better not," Harry said. "You got anything I can take them in?"

With a look that said Harry was crazier for taking them than he would be to blast them to bits, he produced a nondescript box to hide them in.

"Now," a smiling Cadogan said, presenting Harry with a quill and the outline of his own feet. "Sign here please."

A quick _Harry Potter_ later and his parchment was given pride of place on Cadogan's Wall of Fashionable Feet, between Dumbledore and Fudge. Harry thought if Cadogan ever managed to trip Snape into his chair for an hour at least he'd be in good company if the potions master ever tried to taunt him about it later.

With no less than three invites back should he ever have the need Harry found himself back out in the main alley throng, though his feet certainly felt the difference. Different certainly seemed the apt description for him today as every other eye in the alley darted back to get a second look at his robes. In his haste to blend in it seemed he picked the one thing sure to draw everyone's attention.

It was just then that Harry began to appreciate just how omnipresent Hogwarts was in his new world. _'__No wonder these people can spot a rogue robe the length of the alley,_' Harry thought. _'__They'd all been there too._'

Spotting the shop he was sure he had gotten the robes at in the first place – a place called Malkins – Harry angled his way over.

"Sorry," Harry said to the ladies inside as he checked his watch, "but I don't have a lot of time. Do you think you could do something so I don't look like I just escaped from school?"

"Oh dear," the lady he recognized from last year said. "You certainly are _out of time_, aren't you? You realize it's summer? I'll sort you out," she chuckled.

A few waves of Madam Malkin's wand had the Gryffindor crest gone, the tie a nice deep green, and she even added an inch or so of length to where Harry had grown since his last visit.

"There you go," Madam Malkin smiled. "Now off you go before I change my mind and charge you," she said with a shooing motion.

"Lasts the day," her curly–haired assistant called. "For any more you stay and pay."

"Oh, that's a good one," Malkin said to her as she hustled Harry back to the door. "I'll have to remember that one later."

Now feeling pleasantly unremarkable Harry was able to finish his trip to the gleaming white bank, hitting the doors at five–past ten.

Even with the steady trickle of clients fueling the weekend shopping outside less than half of the teller stalls had a goblin manning them so that each one of them had a queue. One goblin he did note stood alone on the far side of the hall in a pin–striped suit. Hands clasped in front of him and bald head slowly swiveling, his eyes never resting anywhere for long. Harry immediately marked him out as some sort of manager. Making his way over, he pulled out his letter for reference.

"Excuse me," Harry said.

Instantly he was the focus of those appraising eyes. Harry was sure they took in everything from his disheveled hair and rumpled letter to the newness of his shoes.

"I was wondering if you tell me where I might find – er – F. M. Gropegold? I think I might have an appointment."

Whatever the goblin's appraisal was Harry must have passed for he smiled. It didn't reach its eyes.

"Financial Manager Gropegold just came in and should be available. Gringotts appreciates your timely visit, Mr. Potter. This way please," the goblin said and started towards a large bronze door without a backwards glance.

The door closed behind them, shutting out the sound of the bustling lobby, and Harry found himself in a hallway that ran the entire back length of the building, filled with doors to what must be very small offices.

"Gropegold's office is right down there," the goblin said, "third on the left from the end."

Harry turned to thank his guide only to find that the little man had vanished.

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, Harry headed down the hallway. The slight rustle of his robes on the carpet was the only sound that disturbed the oppressive quiet.

Just as he reached the third door from the end another suited goblin – this one with long white hair – came bursting out of it. Harry had to jump back or be trampled.

"Make way, make way!" it said, hurrying down the hallway in a rush.

"Mr. Gropegold?" Harry asked.

"Too important to talk," the goblin cried with a wave of his hand.

"I'm Harry Potter," he called after the little man, "I think you work for me?"

Gropegold stopped and slowly turned, his beady eyes staring at him.

"Nice try," the goblin said with a smirk. "I don't know _how_ you got in here but I don't have time to deal with an impostor like you. Best be gone if you know what's good for you."

"But I am Harry."

"I don't know who you are, but I assure you, no Harry Potter would ever be approaching me for anything," Gropegold said definitively.

_'This doesn't make any sense_,' Harry thought.

Just then the door behind Gropegold opened and the bald goblin from before stepped out.

"What's all this noise?" he demanded.

"Overseer Barchoke!" Gropegold exclaimed, a new unctuous tone entering his voice. "What a pleasure to see you on this level, sir."

"Ah, Mr. Potter, a pleasure to have you," he said as Harry stepped closer. "What brings you to Gringotts?" the Overseer asked as if he hadn't just spoken to him minutes before.

Catching on to what his role was supposed to be here, Harry told the goblin what he already knew.

"I received a letter saying it was important for me to see Mr. Gropegold here today, but when I arrived he said he was too important to talk to me."

"Really?" the Overseer asked, steely gaze shifting to the goblin in question. "Is that how Gringotts treats valued clients now?"

Gropegold gave the Overseer his falsest smile.

"You know how these little heirs are, sir. Always in a hurry to grow up, always wanting money for something, always thinking their wants the greatest thing in the world, always wanting to take over the account before it's time–"

"And isn't it your duty to see to it that he's ready when that time comes?" Barchoke interrupted.

"A task I leave to his able guardian, sir. Little tyke must've given them the slip. I'll see him back where he belongs–"

"And where might that be?" Barchoke demanded. "Just who is this able guardian?"

"You know I can't divulge sensitive information, sir," Gropegold said in his stuffiest voice.

"I do," Barchoke smiled, a mere display of his pointed teeth. "I also know that it wasn't listed in his file or written on any of your transfer forms for today when I checked them last night."

"You–_you checked my files_?" the color drained from Gropegold's face.

A door across the hall opened on a goblin dressed in black and an old warlock with a face that looked hacked from an old stump. Whoever they were they certainly weren't who Gropegold expected to come out of that office as his eyes took on a distinctly panicked look.

"A cursory glance," the new goblin said, his red eyes alight. "A _thorough_ examination should find the answers we seek."

"Auditor Axegrind. Litigator Lichfield," Gropegold said breathlessly. "S–surely you don't think I've done anything–. Su–surely some sort of arrangement can be made here," he said to the group.

"Next he'll try paying us with our own gold," the wizened warlock said. The goblin in black nodded, his lip beginning to curl.

"How could we not check your files," the Overseer asked, angling himself between Harry and his accountant. "Especially when Mr. Potter's most curious letter arrived in the middle of an Overseer's meeting?"

"It seems," Auditor Axegrind said, taking up a position to flank the rogue accountant, "that young Mr. Potter was unaware whether he had any investments with us, and had _severe_ doubts as to whether or not you exist. Tell me, _citizen_ Gropegold–"

Gropegold's face turned ashen.

"–Do you bleed?"

The goblin turned and fled. Barely two steps down the hall the warlock struck, a flick of his wand had the panicked goblin suspended in midair by his ankle. Up and down the hall doors opened and goblins in scarlet and gold sprang out. Another flick had the former account manager land on his face hard, as the goblins swarmed.

"You can't do this to me!" the lone goblin cried.

"What we can and cannot do is based completely on your willingness to talk!" Barchoke shouted. "Take him away!"

Gropegold was hauled towards the far end of the hall, his panicked cries lingering far longer than he did.

"Auditor, _tear his office apart if you have to._ I want answers. Litigator, lock down the assets of his entire extended family. No one gets away until I clear them."

"Yes, Overseer," they said in unison and moved off at once with practiced strides leaving Harry and the Overseer in the quiet hallway once more.

"Was there a point to that?" Harry asked incredulously once he had gotten over his shock.

"Forge fires are hot–" Barchoke said with a smile that actually reached his eyes. "–To burn away impurities. He'll be learning that – very soon."

"Come," Barchoke said, the word having a strangely friendly tone after what Harry just witnessed. "We'll see about getting you some answers."

.o0O0o.

**AN:** The Barchoke name is a nod to Robst and his work for it was he who finally got me to put the proverbial pen to paper. Similarities end there as our worlds are _vastly_ different.

I had no intention of writing a "Harry goes clothes shopping" scene; they're far too overused and never really accomplish anything. That's actually why I used the trope for that dream in chapter two. Of course once Cadogan started talking I found it hard to shut him up. I think he served the mood well in the end and I managed to slip in some interesting bits. And, if Harry's getting a new perspective on the wizarding world he might as well start at the sole and work his way up.

Thanks for reading.


	4. Bailiwick

**AN:** With a family line as long and well–established as the Potters are presumed to be in the wizarding world it's impossible to believe that only his father's once–close friends could've provided Harry with such a valuable link to his past. It's a true literary sin that Rowling left the Potter family so undeveloped for even dead they could have provided Harry with a large part of his identity.

Warning: There's a fair bit of legalese ahead in the next couple of chapters but there's a good recap in Ch. 6 so if you find yourself getting lost in the technicalities know there is help ahead.

Major Warning: This chapter also contains the dreaded "Name Change" issue that is many people's pet peeve; it's mine as well. I would ask you to relax and simply go with it because it's ultimately meaningless. It's not something that's done to make Harry an OC and give me license to change everything about him, it's a coping mechanism he's employing to handle being thrust into an adult role that he doesn't feel ready for and it's gone by Ch 11. Harry is Harry regardless of what it says on a birth certificate.

.o0O0o.

Harry followed Overseer Barchoke back down the hall, the faint _whisk–whisk_ of his robes and a faint squeak with every other step the goblin took were the only sounds to be heard. He briefly wondered if the stillness of the hallway had been magically induced.

He was led to a small door directly across from the large bronze door he had first entered. The only thing that distinguished this door from any of the others was the noticeable lack of any handle. Only a tiny silver key–hole marred its smooth surface; it was placed at precisely the right height to make anyone not–a–goblin have to stoop uncomfortably to reach it.

A tiny silver key to match the tiny silver lock was attached to a tiny silver chain on the Overseer's belt. That produced and a simple turn to the right had the goblin motioning him to stand clear. A moment later the door shot open to reveal a room he'd be hard pressed to lie down in and no wider than the two of them abreast.

"After you," the goblin motioned him inside.

With nothing else to do, and confident that he was as confused as he could possibly be, Harry entered the cramped little closet. He wasn't sure if it was the claustrophobic closeness of the walls or something about their puke–green color but Harry was forcefully reminded of that wonky chocolate movie where some mad singing candy–maker crammed a load of tourists into a room like this only to take them back out the way they had come – only for them to find themselves somewhere else entirely.

He was wondering just how much of the magical world had bled its way over to the muggle one when the door closed, sealing them in. A small puke–green panel, invisible while the door had been open, sprang to life to the Overseer's right. After inserting his key into another tiny silver lock and pressing the button second to the top in a vertical row of five, the goblin gave out a warning.

"Hold on to something," he said as he closed the panel again.

Before Harry could even wonder what he was supposed to hold on to he felt the most disturbing thing in his life. He was turned upside down, right–side up, upside down, spun around, and corkscrewed halfway so he was right–side up again all in the split second before he could have the chance to fall.

For the first time Harry regretted not being deprived of breakfast. Feeling like his stomach was inside out and in his mouth had him regretting every bit of food he'd ever eaten. Slumped against the wall with his eyes closed helped fight the dizziness but it did nothing to put his stomach back where it belonged.

"You coming?" the goblin asked, now standing outside the little room again.

Harry made his way out of there before the flipping closet could do whatever it was that it did again. _'__At least now I know why it was painted puke–green_,' he thought as he attempted to swallow his stomach.

The small antechamber Harry found himself in was nothing like the hallway he had left. He had trouble believing this was even the same building. The floors weren't covered in carpet to begin with; these were a dark gray marble tile. The walls were also marble, though they were a silver–gray. Also gone were the torches and metalwork, replaced by softly glowing orbs clutched in the claws of various stone dragons that seemed to be growing out of the walls.

Every surface he saw was polished so much that it shined. Everything was so immaculate that even the Dursleys would be tripping over themselves for the chance to eat off their floor. Harry heard the faint tinkling of water coming from somewhere which added to the cooler feeling of wherever he was and had a pleasantly soothing effect on his stomach.

"My office is this way, Mr. Potter," Barchoke said as he gestured to the hallway proper.

Harry was glad to hear their steps ring out properly when they walked and to see that there were actual signs of life on this level. Small groups of obviously senior goblins conversed amongst themselves, occasionally giving him a second glance. The hallway they were in opened up around a small indoor courtyard, at the center of which stood the fountain he had been hearing.

While it didn't spout water up three floors it certainly was a spectacle all its own. The statue at the fountain center was a dense dark granite. Rather than slowly sculpted or gradually grown out of the stone as all the other reliefs he'd seen had been, this one looked to have been hacked and beaten until the rough figure of what it was supposed to represent had started to take shape and then left unfinished as if the stone itself had committed some sort of crime.

The rough–cut and half–formed figure of a goblin was on its knees, face twisted in tragedy, water trickling from its eyes as it cried out in defeat while before it an exquisitely carved sword – the only part of the statue that resembled anything near the other finished works – was embedded into the statue's base, around its tip the splintered remains of a wand were depicted. At each corner stood a stone representation of a goblin's severed head, water trickling from nose, mouth, neck, or ears to simulate the crying goblin's ultimate fate. In severe gouges between them were carved phrases like 'Humbling the Halfwit,' 'Pride Before Fall,' and 'Thieves Turn Tides.'

The Overseer seemed strangely at home with the gruesome display as he didn't even remark on it as they passed. The other goblins didn't pay it any mind either as they walked between their offices, going in and out of various side hallways labeled such things as Confidential, Corporate, Personal, and Dodgy. His goblin guide took him down one such hallway. His was labeled Hereditary and would take them back towards the front of the building, unless Harry had been turned around completely.

The Overseer's office was at the very end of the hall. To say it was oddly shaped would be to put too fine a point on it since the whole room seemed to be built on odd angles. On either side of the door the walls flared out only to turn on a sharp right angle and head back in again. Rather than meeting at a precise point the walls – which were mostly windows – curved inward again so that the room's shape resembled a dulled misshapen spear point.

"Go on and take a look," the goblin said, gesturing to the windowpane that made up the room's rounded edge as the goblin himself went to root through some old cabinets on the room's right side. "Odds are you won't be seeing the inside of this office again."

Harry found that he had been right, they were at the front of the building again, with the Overseer's office forming part of the wedge–shaped edge of the building as it thrust its way out into the street below and Diagon Alley split around it. The window itself did present a rather unique view of the tiny little ribbon that was wizarding London. With a good view of muggle London spread out beyond the alley's border, even seeing the comforting view of the tiny shops lost to time and the stream of witches and wizards going about their daily lives made for an unsettling combination.

In his mind Harry suddenly got the image of a colossus; feet planted wide in defiance, lord of all he surveyed, firmly rooted in both worlds and ready to take on all challengers. Having seen a tiny bit of the wizarding and muggle worlds, Harry wondered if this was the _goblin_ world he was looking at. He suddenly felt every inch the twelve year old boy that he was.

"Now," the goblin said, drawing Harry's attention back to the present. "Now that we've got a bit of privacy we don't have to stand so much on formality." He was sitting at a sturdy mahogany desk that took up almost the entirety of the room's left side and had one of those nice leather chairs that swiveled. Harry resisted the urge to ask how the little goblin's feet reached the floor to swivel it.

The most peculiar thing about the office wasn't the bizarre shape or disjointed view but the odd snow–globe that now sat amongst the Overseer's files and folders on his desk. Unlike any other snow globe Harry had ever seen this one didn't have a happy little village with glitter swirling around it but a fashionably–dressed olive–skinned couple dancing scandalously close to each other. It was very much like a television stuck inside a crystal ball only without any sound.

"Since this Investigation and Audit are the result of your Inquiry, that entitles you to what answers we have," the goblin started in a very business–like tone that had Harry thinking the Overseer was actually quite comfortable with formality.

"It is by no means a complete picture; we're actually hoping you might be able to fill us in on some of the important points. Feel free to take a seat," the Overseer gestured to a pair of goblin–sized chairs that faced the rounded–end bank of windows, "this will probably take a while."

Harry pulled one of the tiny chairs closer to the desk and tried to make himself look comfortable.

"Gringotts corporate would like me to take this opportunity to express how shocked and appalled we are at the actions of your former account manager. While Gringotts assures you that there was no malice of forethought on its part it remains as committed as ever to guaranteeing the safety and security of your assets – in accordance with Ministry regulations, so on and so forth," the goblin finished with a wave.

The goblin seemed to suddenly get nervous as he shuffled his files.

"I suppose by way of an introduction to – shall we say Gringotts corporate culture – a bit of an explanation is in order as to why certain irregularities had not been picked up until now."

"What irregularities?" Harry asked.

"The ones raised in your letter, as a matter of fact." The goblin took out a handkerchief and mopped its bald head, shooting glances at the door as if he'd been expecting help for this particularly uncomfortable conversation.

"Here at Gringotts, Mr. Potter–" and suddenly the goblin stopped. "–Or do you prefer to go by Harold?"

"Er– My name's Harold?" Harry asked poleaxed.

The Overseer's eyes whipped back down to the files it was used to dealing with, flipping a few pages in one until he found what he sought.

"Harold James Potter, born Saint Mungo's, July 31st, 1980 to James Charlus and Lillian Evans Potter?" the goblin recited.

"That's my birthday," Harry said. "I've never heard of _Saint_ Mungo's before and everyone's always just called me Harry, and my mother Lily."

"Huh," the goblin grunted, making a note in his files. "Saint Mungo's is a wizarding hospital here in London, it's where most wizarding children are born, just so you know. Personally, I thought all that _Harry_ stuff was part of that 'Boy–Who–Lived' rubbish. You know," Barchoke looked up at him curiously, "I'll never understand the human need to alter your own name. The only thing similar goblins have is 'Gotts' and 'the Halfwit' out there," he said, referring to the statue in the hall. "Gotts knows what they'd come up with if it became widespread with us. What would you call me, Chokey?"

Harry wondered if he was supposed to laugh and was thankfully saved by a well–timed knock on the door as the stump–faced wizard from before poked his head in.

"I heard salsa dancing so I thought I'd knock," the man he remembered as Lichfield said.

"Lester! Come in, come in," the goblin cried.

"Salsa dancing?" a confused Harry asked.

"Nice to see you again, Harold," Lichfield said, his gnarled hand pressing a bit on Harry's shoulder as the man moved behind him to retrieve the other chair.

"Apparently he goes by the name 'Harry,'" Barchoke explained.

"The mother always wins in the end," Lichfield said behind him.

"Everything underway?" the Overseer asked.

"Wouldn't be here otherwise. Sorry it took so long; Gropegold has a lot of cousins. Doubt you'll get anything from them though, they've been trying to get a piece of the action for years."

"Any bit of extra pressure we can bring to bear to get him to talk," Barchoke said with a wave.

Harry's tiny seat lurched as it quickly grew up around him. He thought the goblin had done it until a prod from Lichfield's wand saw its companion expand as well before the old wizard sat down beside him.

"Is he talking yet?" the goblin asked.

"Not yet," the warlock replied. "Hasn't stopped shouting at us to realize how much trouble he's really in. Now that the panic's worn off he must think he's in a good position not to have folded immediately."

"We could do with a bit more panic."

"So what's going on?" Harry asked, tired of being treated like he wasn't there. "And what do you mean 'the mother always wins'? You said we've met before?" Harry asked the Litigator.

"You could say I've seen you before, though I doubt you could say the same. I doubt your eyes could focus at the time, you were very young. It was back when your father took over the estate from Charlus."

"Lester here got his start as bailiff for your grandfather," Barchoke said as way of an introduction, finally seeming to find a topic he was comfortable with.

"If your father had had it his way you would've been named James Jr. or Jamie – Merlin help us, but your mother insisted on Harold – or Harry, after her father," he said offhandedly. "But aye, that's my bailiwick," Lester agreed. "Enforce borders, resolve disputes, collect usage fees and rents, thump a few heads if people forget what's what," he said with a wink. "Not that I had to do a lot of that," he explained. "Your family was always good about getting good people. Sit down with them for tea and suddenly they're all _'Oh! I forgot we owe you money!'"_

"My family owned land?"

"_Owns_ land," the old wizard corrected. "'Potter and earth go hand–in–hand,' or so they used to say. Even Gropegold couldn't sell it for all he was for kicking people off it. Not without you being of age and with your specific approval."

"Then why was he kicking people off their land?"

"Off _your_ land," Lichfield corrected him again with a pointed finger that said Harry'd get a good poking if he didn't learn the difference soon.

"It's not so uncommon with landed estates," Barchoke provided. "There's very few of them left but from time to time things change over from one generation to another, the new one bringing in new ideas on how to use the land, or just wanting a bit more cash–on–hand, and so they shuffle people off their property–"

"Naturally, we all thought that's what he was doing for you," Lester said. "Might be another five years before you can properly inherit but if you had already decided that you'd prefer glittering gold over your family's land–" Lichfield pulled a face to show what he thought of that idea. "Best start early rather than re–up someone's lease for another ten or twenty years and make you wait to squander your inheritance."

And with that Lichfield settled into a deep silence, the look of concentration on his face making him look all the more like a gnarled root. _'__An old root that'd likely _poke _you if you went on without him_,' Harry thought. Just when he was finally trying to think of a way to bring up something _he_ wanted to talk about – namely his problem with Dobby or the reason Gropegold was carried off in the first place – the wizened old man gave out a single terse "Damn."

"You remember something?" Barchoke asked.

"No, that's the problem," Lichfield groused. "I can't for the life of me remember where the Potter estate was. The main estate," he clarified, "the home estate, the center of Potter power. I visited there more times than I can count–," the grubby old wizard said with a shake of his finger, as if to order himself to recall it. "–But for the life of me I just can't remember the _name_. It should be right about–" he made a grasping motion as if to grab the air in front of him only to come away with nothing.

"Locked?" the goblin suggested.

"Could be," the old bailiff said cryptically. "It'd keep anyone from any minor lines we don't know about from sniping his Investiture and keep the likes of Gropegold from leveling the place. I'll have to check the _old _records for it. Might be in there. Gropegold would've been too lazy go back that far. But the _name_. Potter's _Soil? _No. Potter's _Wheel?_ No, that's just stupid."

"Anyway," the goblin said, drawing their attention again. "We seem to have gone a bit far afield–"

"It's the boy's fault," the old bailiff said, squinting at him with one eye larger than the other. "He's got Charlus's way about him," he said to Barchoke. To Harry he said, "To his dying day the old man would sit back and smile while everyone around him would natter on for hours, saying nothing. I swear it was some sort of spell. Your father on the other hand, the few times I met with him you couldn't get him to shut up."

"Will you please shut up?" the goblin cried.

Lichfield held his hands up in mock surrender, lips a thin gnarled line on his face, and then pointed at Harry as if he'd been the one doing all the talking.

"Anyway_,_" the goblin said. "As I was trying to say – before a rampaging hippogriff stormed through the conversation–" Barchoke shot Lichfield another look. "Here at Gringotts the relationship between Account–Holder and Account Manager – well, it's virtually sacrosanct."

The goblin seemed to settle himself once more in his chair.

"Gringotts itself does not pay Account Managers, outside of a small training stipend to get them started. The Managers make their money from the account profits and lose money, in the form of Remittances back to the Holder, should their advice prove faulty. That said, who are we to care if both Holder and Manager lose their shirts because of bad investment strategy so long as the Holder himself signs off on it? As Lester here said, for the longest time that's what we thought Gropegold was doing for you–"

"–More precisely, for your guardian," Lichfield clarified.

"My guardian?" Harry asked curiously. "But the Dursleys don't know anything about Gringotts."

"And there's the rub," Lester emphasized with a point.

"The Dursleys?" Barchoke asked, scribbling a new note on his page. "These are those muggles you wrote about?"

"Yes, my aunt and uncle. If they knew I had any money it would have been gone before they had to change my first diaper."

"Just how long have you been with them?" Barchoke asked incredulously.

"As long as I can remember," Harry said. "They said I'd been left on their doorstep just after my parents died."

The goblin and the stump shared a look and Harry thought he saw a gleam in the old stump's eyes.

"Now this aunt and uncle, as you call them. Who are they exactly?" the Litigator asked.

"They're–" Harry floundered, at a loss for any other words than the ones he'd already used, "my aunt and uncle. My mother's sister and her husband."

"A _real_ aunt and uncle. Huh," Lichfield grunted. "I thought she was dead. Or maybe I just hoped she was."

Barchoke looked at him curiously.

"The woman was a shrew, the man was worse – if it's still the same one she was with."

"That sounds like them," Harry said curious as to how a Gringotts Litigator knew Aunt Petunia.

"Nearest blood relative then," Lester said as he nodded at Barchoke. "That's clever."

"Very clever," the goblin agreed.

"What's clever?"

"A blood relative," Lester repeated. "Back then, You–Know–Who and his followers–,"

Barchoke made a disgusted face.

"–They targeted whole families, not just certain people. Young people, especially very young kids, they were moved around all the time. Grandparents, godparents, friends–of–the–family, whoever they had in the hopes that if You–Know–Who came to call, at least some of the family would survive."

Lichfield noted the disgusted face Harry was wearing now as well.

"It was grisly," Lester agreed, "but it worked. Some kids your age and older are only alive because they weren't at home when their parents were killed. It was Ministry law at the time for any wizarding orphan to be placed with their closest blood relation–."

"So I _should_ have been placed with the Dursleys?"

"–Their closest blood relation in the wizarding world," the Litigator clarified. "Unless it was specifically spelled out otherwise."

Harry was having difficulties seeing where he was going with this.

"We have no evidence yet to say that it was supposed to be anything different. We may not even find that once we comb through your vault and dig through our files–"

"It's the Ministry that handles Wills," Barchoke interjected.

"–And we don't want them involved just yet," Lichfield finished for him. "Those sisters _hated_ each other though and your parents had plenty of friends to call on – and they knew they were being targeted, so why did you end up in the muggle world?"

Harry had no answer for him.

"You were a wizarding child, born in the wizarding world to wizarding parents and you end up with them? That, to me, says a guardian was involved and a guardian means the Ministry. By the spirit and letter of the law, anyone in our world would have had a better chance at getting you than a muggle couple, even your mother's sister, so that – to me – says abandonment."

"Abandoned." Harry suddenly felt cold. He knew he had been left, but to have had a guardian and then to be abandoned by them – and left with an aunt and uncle that hated him. Suddenly something clicked and everything he'd gone through on Privet Drive didn't look quite so rosy any more.

"I was named for her father," Harry said bitterly.

"What's that?" Barchoke asked.

"I was named for her father, and she let him lock me in the cupboard under the stairs until I got my Hogwarts letter, refusing to even let me be fed."

The goblin and litigator shared a look.

"Exactly how bad were these people?" Lester asked quietly.

"You don't want to know," Harry said evasively.

Silence reigned for several moments before Lichfield started up again.

"Well, that's the case I'm wanting to make. Barchoke and I both know that the only way a goblin like Gropegold got his hands on your account was by guardian consent. With a Ministry writ in hand this guardian could have had preliminary access to your account here, and with what happened to your last Account Manager–"

"What happened to him?" Harry interrupted.

"They say his mind cracked when he heard about your parents' deaths," Barchoke said quickly so as not to prolong things now that Lichfield had them safely past Harry's past treatment. "He may have thought the whole family lost and everything he'd ever worked for simply gone – though I never believed it. Lester's theory now brings the issue back into play."

"–With him out of the way," the Litigator continued, "it would have been easy to find someone willing to look the other way as this guardian drained your inheritance and paid this manager under the table for his trouble. Anyone who was familiar with the Ministry's familial placement priorities at the time could have simply dropped you off on your aunt's doorstep and most people wouldn't have thought twice about it."

"Anyone inside Gringotts," Barchoke explained, "who saw your account active, would have believed it was doing so under normal guardianship practices. I thought so myself, and I knew that your parents had decided to shut things down as much as they could until you came of age. I just thought that your guardian simply wanted to grow the account more than simple securities ever could. I just assumed that this guardian was keeping you out of sight."

"You may have noticed that you're a bit of a celebrity," Lester said dryly.

"And with Gropegold being no stranger to a finely–cut suit, how were we to know he was throwing bad money after good and losing money when everything looked like he was making money? Without an Account–Holder complaint we'd be hard–pressed to look through someone's files–"

"So how much money have I lost?" Harry asked concerned that he had just spent his last twelve galleons on a pair of shoes that he couldn't take back.

"Your guess is as good as ours. We won't know that quite some time yet."

"You should still be comfortable," Lichfield said, "just not as comfortable as you should be."

"Define 'comfortable.'" Harry said.

"In relation to what?"

"Having nothing."

"Having _nothing?"_ Lichfield asked, looking over to Barchoke for an answer.

"You're doing _good_," the goblin beamed, giving him a thumbs–up gesture.

"And compared to what it should be?" Harry prompted.

"You're doing _baaad_," the goblin sagged and shook his head morosely.

"So how do we find this guardian?" Harry asked shortly.

"What about the transfer orders for today?" the goblin asked Lichfield.

"Axegrind stopped those dead. I've got them here," Lester said, pulling out a file for Barchoke to read. "There may be a few hints but unfortunately they're not going to do us a lot of good. They were signed magically–."

"–So unless we compare this magical signature against the magical signature of every person we've ever done business with we're never going to find them with it," Barchoke finished for him.

"So why don't we do that?" Harry asked, wanting to get a move on things.

"Because we're a _bank_, we're not the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We can't violate the privacy of the entire wizarding world just because we want to. We'd find ourselves in Azkaban faster than Sirius Black."

Lester's eyes went wide and Barchoke gained a greenish tint. The goblin mumbled an apology and buried himself in his files, his blush extending from the tip of his nose and the ends of his long ears. Harry thought it best not to ask.

"If you want to get the Ministry involved and take this through an official channel, that's your call," Lichfield said. "Gringotts would prefer to handle this internally for now. Either way, I'm authorized to act as your litigator as an extension of my previous bailiff responsibilities for your family. But I have to say, we take this forward now it's likely never to see the light of day. There are some rather large obstacles in our way that would bury us if this gets brought before the Wizengamot too soon."

"Like?"

"You're too young," the goblin said, his face now back to its normal color.

"Twelve is too young?"

"Twelve _is_ too young," Lester said. "If you were thirteen we could sue for emancipation on the grounds that you're the last of your line. It's on the young side of the scale, but it's been done before. Once that's done we could sue this absentee guardian for the mismanagement of your financial affairs, but there's also problems with that."

"Which are?"

"It takes _forever_," Barchoke groused.

"And it legitimizes this claim of guardianship," Lichfield explained. "By claiming they were a _bad _guardian we're still recognizing that status as a guardian. With them recognized as your guardian, even minimally, it immunizes Gringotts from any liability and leaves that guardian and Gropegold as the sole persons responsible for what happened and may end up limiting how much you're able to get back of what they stole from you."

"So if they already wasted all of the money they stole then I'm not likely to get anything back," Harry summed up.

"Exactly."

"Wonderful," Harry said, silently cursing this shadowy guardian. Just because he never cared about having the money before doesn't mean he wanted it stolen.

"There are some within Gringotts that would prefer you take this option–"

"–But you two don't?" Harry interjected, looking at Barchoke.

"I may not like Gringotts being seen in a bad light," the goblin said, "but what Lester's saying makes a lot of sense. Plus," the Overseer leafed through the files in front of him, "from what I'm seeing there are some pretty big fish out there to catch with this. But it will take time_._" Barchoke said meaningfully.

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there," Lichfield grumped. "Your youth will be an obstacle for us either way, but with this being a purely civil matter we have all of Gringotts behind us – or rather, in front of us, providing a very nice cover for our joint investigation. As your litigator what I would suggest, and the Overseer here agrees, that we handle this as a case of ward abandonment and let Gringotts pursue this would–be guardian for bank fraud."

"Why bank fraud?" Harry asked.

"Because if this guardian got you, already intending to abandon you, then an easy case can be made that he was never really your guardian at all."

"And if they were never your guardian–," the Overseer prompted.

"–Then they had no right to administer your account and ten years of transactions and transfers go up in smoke," the litigator waved his hand as if wafting away a breeze.

"So what exactly would that mean for me?" Harry asked.

"What bank fraud means for you is that you're back in black."

Harry looked at him quizzically.

"It means all your money goes back to the way it should have been," Barchoke said, seemingly engrossed in the transfer orders.

"Just like that?" Harry asked, wondering what the catch was.

"Just like that," Lichfield said.

"Not just like that," the goblin said sharply.

Lichfield moved to explain.

"Gringotts honors its account security when it comes to fraud–"

"Gringotts is _required_ to honor its account security when it comes to fraud–" the Overseer grumped.

"Do you want to do this yourself or do you want piddle with your papers?"

The Overseer gave him a chagrined look and silently backpedaled into piddling.

"By Ministry banking law Gringotts is _required–,"_ Lichfield shot Barchoke a look, "–to honor its account security when it comes to fraud. The law was designed to stop Gringotts, or any affiliated goblin, from defrauding the public for their own gain. Your accounts are insured so your losses are reversed and all the debt incurred becomes the property of Gringotts."

"Why would who owns the debt be important?" Harry asked.

This time it was the litigator who looked wary.

"Let's just say it's never good to owe a bank," Lichfield said, carefully not looking anywhere near the Overseer.

"Especially not a _goblin_ bank," Barchoke interjected, now safely beyond rebuke.

"Right," Harry said to fill the tense silence that followed.

"So when it comes to finding this guardian," Lichfield said, choosing to address the least scary topic raised so far. "As it stands right now, I can see three ways of going about it. The first is Gropegold; we've got him safely stashed away. He'll be facing goblin justice soon anyway so the only hope he has is giving up his accomplice–"

"–And even then he won't get much," the Overseer pronounced.

"Our second avenue of inquiry is these Dursleys."

Harry made a disgusted look, already seeing where this was going.

"Now I'm not gonna say I like it," Lichfield said quickly. "Or even that I'm suggesting it. I'm simply saying that bringing civil or criminal charges in the wizarding world against muggles is almost impossible and it'll bring all sorts of attention that I'm sure you don't want, while bringing those same charges in the muggle world threatens the Statute of Secrecy. We can't even arrange for anything unfortunate to happen to them without breaking a dozen anti–muggle persecution laws ourselves."

"But they don't know that," Harry said quietly.

"They may not know that," Lichfield corrected him. "And even if they don't the only leverage we'd gain on them is for information in exchange for leaving them alone."

Lichfield let the silence linger.

"And this third option?" Harry asked.

"We do nothing."

Harry looked up at him.

"We've already closed down their access to Gropegold," Lichfield explained. "The rest of your account is easy enough to put under seal so that they can't possibly touch it. We pinch them in the pocket book and eventually they'll turn up."

"That's not to say we'll give up on Gropegold," Barchoke said. "Not by any means. It just means that if he doesn't talk we can still find this guardian."

"We'll just be a little flat–footed when they show up and if they're suitably important–"

"–And it looks like they are–"

"–Then they may catch us with our pants down before we're ready to display what we've got."

"So what do we need in order to get ready?" Harry asked.

"The first order of business is to deal with that youth issue," Lichfield said.

"Second order," Barchoke corrected him. "First order is getting him out of that house and into our world."

"You mean away from the Dursleys?" Harry asked, looking from one to the other, hopes rising for the first time. "You mean never going back?"

"We mean never _ever_ going back," Lichfield agreed.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** When I initially posted this, I made the mistake of chopping the Gringotts visit up with the misguided idea that I should try to keep the chapters roughly even in length. I've since learned that _that_ is a horrible idea; it made it feel like Harry was there _forever_. I've kept Ch 4 - 6 as they were to keep all the reviews but you should really think of them as parts of the same chapter. It might allay this frustrated feeling.

Thanks for reading.


	5. Traces

**AN:** When I initially posted this I made the mistake of chopping the Gringotts visit up with the misguided idea that I should try to keep the chapters roughly even in length. I've since learned that _that_ is a horrible idea. It made it feel like Harry was there forever. I've kept Ch 4 - 6 as they were to keep all the reviews but you should really think of them as parts of the same chapter. It might allay this frustrated feeling.

There's a lot in these chapters, and I apologize for the legal talk but that's what comes from creating two characters with legal backgrounds, even if they are entertaining. All of this serves to establish Harry and the world he finds himself in so it's rather important that it's done right - more on this at the end.

We pick up with the Gringotts group already in progress.

.o0O0o.

_"__You mean away from the Dursleys?" Harry asked, looking from one to the other, hopes rising for the first time. "You mean never going back?"_

_"__We mean never _ever_ going back," Lichfield agreed._

"WOOHOO!" Harry's great cry went up as out of his robes came his bulging hand–me–downs and they too followed his cheer up to the ceiling before coming back down onto two very disturbed Gringotts employees.

"He's certainly taking this well," Barchoke said as he scooted Harry's pants off his precious files.

"It's always so difficult giving bad news," Lichfield lamented with a dramatic shake of his head, a hand pressed to his heart.

"Hang on," Harry said, coming back to the ground again. "My trunk, all my stuff for school, it's still there. Won't I _have to _go back?"

Barchoke's eyes went wide, but not for the reason he thought.

"Our security!" the goblin cried with a shocked stare at his empty snow globe. "Everyone quiet, quiet!" In a blur, files were flipped and drawers drawn as the distressed goblin searched for something. "Now where did I put that thing? I just had it."

Harry turned to ask the old wizard beside him for answers but Lichfield already had one gnarled finger to his lips and another ready for poking.

"Aha!" the goblin cried, holding up a shiny slender tuning fork. "Here's the little doxie."

With two fingers daintily holding the shiny silver instrument, the Overseer tapped his desk and touched the other end to the clear globe. Expecting the dancing couple to appear again Harry was kind of disappointed when purple dinosaur and a small group of children showed up and started silently singing and dancing around.

"I usually have it set on salsa dancing," the goblin said.

"–Very disconcerting for anyone trying to listen in," Lichfield interrupted. "Way too active and energetic for most people's tastes – a bit like him once you get to know him," the old warlock said with a thumb pointed towards the Overseer.

"You're one to talk," the goblin groused. "The only one who can stand you is me, and Gotts knows how I put up with you. Must have the patience of a smith of old," he ended stuffily.

"And for a flighty little doxie that's saying something."

Barchoke shot him a look.

"So what is that?" Harry asked, hoping to corral the adults into acting their age.

"It's called a Concealer," Lichfield explained. "Anyone trying to listen in will only hear whatever's going on inside that orb."

"And if they heard any of that last bit this will _really_ annoy them," the goblin said as he studied the globe. "You think someone broke through?"

"I think his pants turned it off."

"No throwing pants!" the goblin ordered Harry.

"Oh yes, just _shirts_ will be fine," Lichfield said sarcastically as he handed Harry's hand–me–downs back to him.

Harry expected some sort of comeback from the Overseer but Barchoke had a finger to his lips, brow furrowed in serious thought. "His things, his things," the goblin muttered. "What do we do about his _things?"_ Suddenly his eyes popped and out from a drawer came a very big book that he threw on the desk with a bang. The goblin muttered to himself as he flipped through section after section of tiny text.

Lichfield sat back in his chair.

"He'll find it," Lester said. "He always finds it when he gets like this. It may not be exactly what you think – but he'll find it," the old stump said confidently as Harry wondered what 'it' could be.

"Aha!" the goblin cried pointing to a specific line of very tiny text. "You, Mr. Potter, are a wizard, are you not?"

"Er – Yes," Harry said curiously.

"And, although you cannot be said to own the domicile in question, it remains, technically speaking, your residence – until further notice. Is that not the case?" Barchoke said with a smile, lights dancing in his eyes.

Harry looked over at the old wizard next to him. Lichfield was already nodding his head.

"Yes."

"And the objects in question may be said to belong to you?"

"I guess so."

"Well then," the goblin said happily. "All that needs to be done is to fill out this form _here_," out of one drawer came the form in question, "as to the address and location of the residence, as well as a general description of what is to be retrieved–." And another drawer was opened and similar–looking form soon joined the first. "And then on _this_ form we place the same information as to the objects to be withdrawn–"

Harry wondered about the difference as an almost cackling Barchoke scooted the available quill and ink set closer to Harry.

"And then, under Banking Order 659, Section Q, Subsection B, Gringotts can retrieve your property from your residence to deposit into your vault and then withdraw your property from your vault and deliver it to the new location that is _considered_ your residence at _that_ time. And take _that_ Unauthorized Transit Stricture!" Barchoke shouted in triumph.

Harry looked over at the old stump.

"Yep. Didn't see that one coming," Lichfield said.

Harry shook his head and went about filling out the forms in front of him.

"Go ahead and list anything the Dursleys let you use on a regular basis," Lichfield advised. "As long as you can reasonably say that you believe they gave them to you, you should be covered. If they don't like it, let them go complain their authorities that goblins stole their furniture and see what good that'll do them."

Harry shrugged and went ahead and listed the desk, bed, wardrobe, and clothes he used along with detailed instructions to find what he had hidden under the invisibility cloak. He may never plan on wearing the clothes again, but throwing them sure felt nice. It was only when he got to the end of the second form, where it asked for the location of the residence where everything would be delivered to that Harry ran into a stumbling block.

"Where should I say my residence is?" Harry asked.

"Huh," Lichfield grunted. "The Leaky Cauldron is out. Unless you stayed there a month it couldn't legally be considered a residence, and by then you'd be on your way back to school. We haven't had a chance yet to go through your file and see if you have any vacant properties suitable for living in."

Barchoke's triumphant face fell.

"What about the place in Godric's Hollow?" the Overseer asked.

"The Ministry turned it into a damn monument," the Litigator said tersely. Harry instantly wanted to ask about it, but certainly didn't want to ask him right then when it brought out that kind of mood.

"Is there nowhere in the wizarding world you can stay at in the mean time?" Barchoke asked. "Staying with Lester or I would seem rather biased and the muggle world just won't do for us at all."

"Both would work against you," Lester nodded to Harry.

"Well my friend, Ron Weasley, did invite me over to stay–" Harry said, wondering what the Weasleys would say when he showed up with a bedroom set in tow. "But he never said where they live."

"Weasleys?" Barchoke looked to the Litigator. "Er – Um. The name sounds familiar but I don't recall any Account Manager with that folio."

"Probably because there isn't one," Lichfield replied. "I think I know the family he's talking about – they keep popping up on the minimum balance list."

"Oh, _that_ one. Never dealt with them in person."

Harry felt rather embarrassed. He knew that Ron's family were poor but hadn't meant to advertise the fact.

"Don't we have a Weasley somewhere," the goblin asked, "or was that a Wesley?"

"No, you're right. There is a Weasley stationed overseas somewhere," Lichfield confirmed. "I heard some of the secretaries talk about him today when he came in for his yearly performance review. Apparently, he's _dreamy,_" he said wryly. "I slipped out of the office before anyone could ask me to run him through Legals. Want me to have him recalled if he's not here?"

"No, no," Barchoke said with a wave. "That'd raise far too much fuss. Just grab him if you see him."

"It's not going to get him into any trouble, is it?" Harry asked, remembering the last time goblins grabbed anyone around him.

"We're not going to drag him down the hall, if that's what you mean," Lichfield said with a smirk.

"You know, this may work in our favor," the goblin continued, his finger back to his lip in thought. "If we can manage to change this informal invite into a formal rental agreement–"

"First things first," Lester said.

"Oh yes," the goblin said. "You just sign the bottom. Lester can fill out the rest when he goes to find these Weasels."

_"__Weasleys_," Harry corrected.

"Right," the goblin said as Harry signed the form. "Now what we need for you going forward–" the goblin told him, "–is some sort of rental agreement, at least until your next birthday–."

"That can wait," Lichfield said forcefully.

"But it sets up the legal groundwork to counter the youth issue!" cried the exasperated goblin.

"–And it can wait," the Litigator repeated. "The Account Seal comes first since it's the most important. It should have been done the moment I stepped inside this office but some pestilential pixie started pelting me with questions."

Harry looked at him, remembering all the questions he had asked him.

"Not you," Lichfield said, noticing his concern. "Him," he gestured with his thumb. "And if the legal beagle hadn't run off without me I would've had you sign it before signing those other forms."

"Shouldn't that be eagle?" Harry corrected.

"No," Lichfield said with a look to Barchoke. "Because he's small, like a beagle."

The beagle was not amused.

"Then a great stump like you should keep an eye on him," Harry said with a grin. "You know what dogs are like when it comes to trees."

"Ha!" Lichfield cried as Barchoke let off a short round of machine gun like bursts of laughter.

"Stumpy's right," the goblin said. "The Seal should come first."

"So that's a thing now?" Lichfield asked.

"It's better than beagle," Barchoke scorned.

"Would you prefer doxie?"

_"__I'd prefer to get you all out of my office so I can wonder how this all went so horribly wrong,"_ Barchoke huffed quickly.

"So what does a Seal do?" Harry asked before his brain caught up and he regretted the question.

_"__ItlockstheAccount,_" Barchoke blurted out quickly, before Lichfield could have a field day.

Lichfield eyed them both with a smirk.

"A Seal locks things down so that nothing can be done without a bit of blood and magic from you."

"My _blood?"_

"It's the safest way to do things," Lichfield said offhandedly. "Polyjuice Potion can give a person someone else's appearance, but that just alters their body, that can't alter their blood. The same is true for magic. Someone could cast charms on themselves to make everyone think they're you, but everyone's magic registers differently."

"So it's like a fingerprint?" Harry said, catching on to what he meant.

"Huh," Lichfield grunted, staring down at his thumb. "I never thought they might be different."

"So if a person's blood and magic doesn't match mine then–"

"Then nothing happens," Lichfield continued. "The tellers can't honor cheques, distribute funds, no contracts can be entered into – nothing. We use both because getting one might be possible, getting both would be brobdingnagian."

Harry looked at Barchoke.

"A really really really really really really _really_ big thing to do," the goblin explained.

"And since this guardian signs everything magically–," Harry said, catching on to where he was going.

"Then none of his orders will be any good," Lichfield finished for him. "There'll be silence from our end so they'll have to come here to figure out why it's not being followed."

"Any currently ongoing contracts should already be put on hold while our Audit is underway," Barchoke explained. "Only those made before Gropegold will be honored, but even those will be scrutinized. Anyone with a genuine lease with you should be covered though."

"What about the people he forced off–" Harry eyed Lichfield warily, _"–the_ land? Can they come back?" he asked, the lack of a poke saying he had picked an appropriate article.

"Nothing formal can be set up with them," the Litigator explained, putting his poking finger away. "Not until we resolve the guardianship issue and you can stand on your own. But once the Account's been Sealed whoever it is won't be able to force them off again. Even if they get the Ministry involved we can object and mire the whole thing down until the whole issue is resolved. We won't be able to collect rents or anything like that, but what's a few Canutes compared to the good that'll do us?"

"Canutes? I thought it was called a knut," Harry said, wondering if he'd been saying it wrong.

"It _is_ called a knut," the goblin said. "This nut's the only nut I know to call a knut Canute."

"Good one," Lichfield nodded appreciatively.

"He's not wrong," Barchoke explained. "He only seems wrong because everyone else stopped pronouncing it that way _around the turn of the last millennium_."

"It rhymes better," the old wizard said with a shrug. "Few Canutes, few Canutes, few Canutes."

"He's a few Can–idiot," Barchoke said to Harry.

"Better," Lichfield pointed at his little friend. "I like that."

He turned to Harry.

"Putting the people back on the land is a good move, it shows that you have your own ideas about what to do with it, and it shows that the people are willing to accept you, no matter how old you are. It's what Charlus would've done," Lichfield said thoughtfully. "And it should help get the Wizengamot to see you as something other than a little kid. If we could follow that up with a rental agreement–"

Suddenly Lichfield shot Barchoke a look.

"You've gotten me distracted," he said gruffly. "Don't you go blaming me if this conversation keeps bouncing around. We were talking about the Seal."

"Yes, yes," the goblin said, rooting through his desk again before taking out a rather thick type of paper Harry had never seen before.

Harry felt the texture of it. It certainly felt different. He didn't know if it was because of the magic it must contain or because–

"It's vellum," Lichfield said. "It holds the blood better, and it makes the magical signature easier to differentiate."

Barchoke slid the ink and quill set away from Harry.

"Won't I need that?" he asked.

"First you'll need this," the goblin said as he handed over a rather sharp looking black quill.

"What is it?" Harry asked cautiously.

"It's a Blood Quill," the old warlock said. "And it's just what it sounds like. It writes with your own blood rather than any ink. Watch out though, it's painful."

"It should be painful," the Overseer pronounced. "It makes people think. And you shouldn't be complaining, in the old days we used to make you write the whole thing in blood."

"So how much do I have to write?" Harry asked.

"Some people use an X, though most people use a small slash," the Litigator explained. "That fool Lockhart signed his full name, complete with curlicues, with it for his last book deal," he told the Overseer.

"Did he cry for his mommy afterwards?" Barchoke smirked.

"Pretty much."

Harry steeled himself before making a small diagonal slash that looked more like a checkmark. An instant after he was done the back of his right hand stung. Looking at it he saw that the quill had cut into his skin like a scalpel – yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth.

"Now you see why people should think before signing anything," the Overseer grinned.

"I'll take that," Lichfield said, plucking the Blood Quill out of his hands before it could touch anything else. He then conjured a glass of water and stuck the quill inside it. "It makes sure there are no traces," he said, noting the look on Harry's face. "Never hurts to be vigilant."

"Now," the goblin said, scooting the ink and quill set back to him. "You can use this. All you have to do is write, 'I, Harold James Potter–,' or you can use 'Harry' if that's how you'd like to think of yourself, it doesn't make a difference.'–Do hereby Seal my Account with blood and magic.'"

_'Seems simple enough,' _Harry thought to himself as he took up the quill and started to write. _'I,–' _Simple or not, that one letter was as far as he got before he had to stop. _'Am I a Harry or a Harold?'_ he wondered.

He had always been a Harry. Everyone called him Harry. He liked being Harry, Harry thought to himself; making a list of for both sides. His mother had named him Harold though, had insisted on it. _'But it didn't matter to her,_' he reminded himself. _'Her dad was a Harry too._' They had used both_,_ he was forced to conclude, so how was he to decide?

_'__Harry sounds too young,_' a part of him thought.

_'__But Harold sounds so old,_' the other side said.

_'__If age is an issue,'_ he told them both,_ 'then it's better for them to think that I'm older._'

That part of him had a very good point.

_'__Your friends won't want to hang out with stuffy old Harold_,' the Harry part of him said.

_'__Your friends will like you either way,_' the Harold part countered._ 'Hermione might actually think _Harold_ is more mature._'

No other part of him had thought of that at all. The Harry side of him actually seemed to blush.

_'Harold gets his work done. Harold thinks for the future. Harold handles his own Account and wins against the guardian,_' the Harold side pushed.

_'__Harry likes Quidditch. Harry likes chess with Ron. Harry likes sneaking out at night and running around the castle_,' the Harry side reminded him.

How does he decide? _'I like them both!'_

"What's wrong?" the Overseer asked, noting he hadn't moved in a while. "Did you make a spot?" Barchoke peered over his desk at the vellum.

Lichfield seemed to catch on to the dilemma.

"You might want to consider the goblin approach," he said.

The Overseer looked at him wondering if he should be offended.

"In public, goblins have the utmost professionalism,–" Lichfield explained as an approving smile started on the Overseer's lips. "–But once you're in private,–" he said as the goblin scrutinized him again, "–and once a suitable rapport develops," he clarified, "then that professional wall can come down and you can relate to them like normal human beings."

Barchoke seemed to ponder that last bit.

"So you're saying I can be Harry to my friends and Harold to everyone else."

"It's about the same as saying Harry Potter or Mr. Potter," Lichfield said. "It all depends on mood and context, and how you want them to think of you."

"I gathered that part," he said.

"We do do that, don't we?" Barchoke remarked. "I never realized that before."

"It's the benefits of an outsider's perspective," Lichfield remarked.

"No wonder I was like that when we first came in here," Barchoke remarked to himself.

"What _were_ you like before I got here?" Lester asked.

"I don't want you to make fun of me," the goblin said.

"I always make fun of you–."

Harry tuned them out and continued to write.

_'__I, Harold James Potter, do hereby Seal my Account with blood and magic.'_

Harry sat back and looked at the vellum. Nothing happened. Part of him had been expecting fireworks, or trumpets, or for it to be whisked away in a puff of smoke – instead all he heard was–

"I'm lucky you don't carry me down the hall wearing a bonnet!"

_"__What?"_ Harry asked.

For the first time today both adults blushed. They had obviously forgotten he was there.

"Nothing, nothing," Barchoke said with a wave as he tried to put that particular outburst behind him. "Now you seal it with magic."

"But I can't do that," Harry said. "I thought you did. I can't do magic outside of Hogwarts."

The Overseer looked at Lichfield like Harry had just said that he wanted to grow up to be the dancing purple dinosaur.

"There was an anti–muggle panic back in the late 40's. Everyone went mad thinking they'd drop Atopic Bombs on us."

"You mean _atomic_ bombs?" Harry corrected.

"Why, what do they do?" Lichfield asked evenly.

"They blow up a city the size of London in about half a second."

Barchoke and the Litigator shared a look, as if wondering why anyone would be mad enough to make such a thing in the first place.

"And here was me wondering what the big deal was about a little bit of _skin rash_," Lichfield deadpanned. "Now I'm glad they passed those laws. Not that you could really enforce them."

Barchoke still looked lost, anything not banking related obviously not his forte.

"They set up a Trace program and a magical detection web," the warlock said. "The I.C.W. had been pushing hard for it for years. Then they tagged every underage witch and wizard up and down the country. Now they tag kids when they're born in our world or when they first use magic in theirs."

"I don't remember that happening," Harry said.

"Maybe because you were born in our world," Lichfield reminded him. "If you were born in on the muggle side they may have done it while you were at school, or they could have just Obliviated you, I suppose. They would've approached your family around then, to let them know about the wizarding world and what to expect in the future. The idea was to give the parents several years to get used to the idea of their kids being magical before telling the kids themselves."

"So this Trace actively stops him from doing magic?" Barchoke asked.

"No, it's just a convoluted baby minder," Lichfield continued. "Any magic goes off around him while he's underage and the Ministry will be made aware of it. If he's a Hogwarts student and not in a recognized wizarding area they'll assume he did it and send him a warning."

"So what's the hold up?" Barchoke asked. "He's in Gringotts Bank, in the middle of Diagon Alley, with a goblin and a wizard with one foot in the grave. Even if they thought it iffy there's more than enough reasonable doubt to get him out of any official sanction. You've done magic around him so if they were going to come after him they'd be beating the door down already!"

"Exactly," Lichfield agreed. "You're fine, Harry. Don't worry. There should be an exception for cases like this for it to square with the older banking laws, but even if there's not, this would just serve as a case to establish it anyway. As long as there are other wizarding people around you, especially if one's of age, _or if you're in a wizarding home _for example, then you're in the clear. They tell you that you can't do it but what they mean is that they don't want you to."

"Did you just tell him that it's fine to do something illegal?" the Overseer asked, eyes momentarily hardening.

"I merely mentioned to my client an interesting tidbit of legal trivia about the topic at hand," Lichfield replied formally. Barchoke seemed to accept that.

"Just don't go spreading that around," Lichfield continued. "Once it gets out, everyone will use it and the Ministry will have to come up with something that's an even bigger infringement on your personal liberties. Something that might actually work_._ As it is, it's really only useful for keeping muggleborns from practicing and getting a leg up on everyone else."

Thoughts of Hermione had Harry thinking that this was completely unfair.

"And why do they pick on muggleborns?"

"Because they have this idea that they're the ones most likely to use muggle technology to destroy them all if they get miffed about all the persecution they have to deal with," the Litigator said evenly. "It only takes one."

"You know a lot about the Ministry," he said to the Litigator.

"And you don't miss much," the Litigator replied.

And with that Harry realized just how reserved the warlock had been during all that. Besides that bit about skin rash, which he supposed could've been genuine, he hadn't cracked a joke the entire time. Lichfield had obviously lowered his 'professional wall' around Harry but with Harold it's a completely different situation. He wondered how this dynamic could've gotten so complicated and why anyone would want to work for Gringotts at all if this was what you had to go through on a daily basis.

"So," Barchoke said, filling the uncomfortable silence that had descended. "Sealing with magic... Let's go," he finished in a falsely chipper tone.

"You take out your wand and press it to the vellum," the Litigator said, still in his somber mood. "Preferably in line with what you wrote before and the blood. Then you… _push_ a bit of your magic out. That's the only way I know how to describe it. Don't try to cast a spell, just push while thinking about what you wrote there. You'll get it."

Harry did as Lichfield said but didn't really know _how_ to push. When he was finally ready to give up and just wanted the whole Sealing thing over with he felt this… _pulse_. The only thing he had to compare it to was when he first held his wand in Ollivander's a year ago.

He assumed he had done it correctly since Lichfield quickly plucked the Blood Quill out of the water, made his scratch, signed his name normally, and did the same next to it before sliding it to Barchoke. The goblin repeated the process, but since he didn't have a wand he used a licked thumb instead. After he was done the goblin took out some sort of stamp and cried, "Sealed!" before slamming it down on the vellum and it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"You realize that was supposed to be filed after those other two forms, right?" Lichfield reminded the goblin.

"Damn," Barchoke said. "That'll be another form."

"I'll do it later when I file these others and contact the Weasleys," Lichfield said with a wave. "It's on the list. What's next?"

"If this Trace can detect magic around me, why didn't it pick up what a house–elf did last night?" Harry asked, figuring no more damage could be done to Lichfield's mood and that this would probably be the only way to bring up why _he_ wanted to be here in the first place.

"A house–elf? Last night?" the Overseer asked. "I don't think I want to hear this," the goblin said quickly before covering his ears and beginning to hum.

Harry looked to Lichfield to fill him in.

"Overseers are required by law to report any illegal activity; Account Managers aren't. He might be acting as your Account Manager right now but if he hears about a breach by someone else he'll have to report it, and a house–elf in a muggle residence doing magic is certainly that. We're only skirting by the whole bank fraud issue by him saying it's a potential civil matter, but that won't hold for long."

"And what about Litigators?" Harry asked.

"We don't care. It's our job to get you out of trouble you get into and get done what you want to get done, and I'm your litigator."

Harry briefly told Lichfield how Dobby had appeared and why he wanted to buy him.

"If it was just about acquiring a house–elf," Lichfield said. "I've got one I'd bloody give you. She's way too young and energetic for me; makes me feel old. Buying a specific elf though–"

"Is it possible to find this family?"

"Should be possible," Lichfield nodded. "I know someone in Dodgy Deals, he owes me a favor. Anyone who treats a house–elf like that will be up to their neck in them. I'll imply it's for me, that I'm buying Mipsy a mate and she just really liked this Dobby of yours."

Harry wished Lichfield would go back to being the joking guy he was when he came in but couldn't think of what he could do to make that happen.

"He didn't mention anything specific about what this threat is supposed to be?" Lichfield asked.

"No, just that terrible things will happen," Harry explained. "I'm hoping that once I buy him he'll be able to tell me more."

"It might work," Lichfield nodded. "Then again if his family is involved he might not be able to tell you even then. Even if he hated his family and they hated him, that's just the way house–elves work. That family needs their secrets kept and house–elves need Need. I guess it's just a difference between who needs that information more: you, or them. House–elves are just different that way. I take it then that you're not wanting to be pulled out of school, just to be safe?"

He didn't wait for Harry to respond.

"I didn't think so. I guess we can only hope he misunderstood the severity of the threat and that we get this whole guardian thing taken care of before you get yourself killed or it'll make everything we've done here today irrelevant."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Well, with you dead, your line gone," Lichfield explained, "and you being too young to name an inheritor, the guardian becomes only one with a viable claim. It won't matter then that they had abandoned you, or that they stole from you, the Ministry will just give everything over to them."

_"__Harry Potter must stay where he is safe!"_ Dobby's voice cried again in his mind.

"So you're saying that this guardian has reason to _kill me?"_

"I'm saying it's a theory. But yes, this guardian has plenty of golden reasons to kill you, especially now that you know what they've been up to."

"And all I wanted to do was be nice to a house–elf," Harry said stupefied.

"Yeah, they'll make you want to. It's hard not to like them, even the old crusty ones. It sounds condescending but they're really a lot like small children – only with a lot of power behind them and an eagerness to please."

Harry wanted to say something in Dobby's defense, but really couldn't since he had been treating him the same way without even realizing it. Even Cadogan did it. _'Maybe it's their tiny bodies that makes us treat them like children,_' Harry thought. _'That way we'd look after them_.' It'd certainly explain why the word 'family' was repeated so often when dealing with them.

"I'd ask how much you wanted to spend," Lichfield continued, "but since you've got no real idea about the size of your own funds–."

"I'll leave that up to you," Harry said. "You just find him and get them to sell. He's the whole reason I'm here in the first place so no matter what it costs me he's worth twice that much."

Lichfield looked over at the Overseer.

"You want me to poke him or do you want to wait until he finishes?" Lichfield said with a slight smirk.

By this time Barchoke had switched to some kind of harsh–sounding music for his humming that Harry was sure must've been goblin in origin.

"Poke him," Harry said with a smile.

A quick prick by a gnarled poking finger soon got the goblin's attention.

"Ow! Sorry about that, Mr. Potter," the goblin said, rubbing his side. "Overseers are required by law–"

"I already told him," Lichfield interrupted. "Final details?"

"Right, right. Now that the Seal's in place all that's left is the Key," the Overseer said.

"You have your Key," Lichfield asked, "or is that in your stuff back at the muggles?"

"Er – neither," Harry said. "I don't have a key."

Lichfield looked at the Overseer, the Overseer looked at his files.

"It says here that your Key was presented to a Teller on July 31st of last year to be inspected before withdrawal, and that's corroborated by the report filed by the cart operator that led you to your vault and opened the door," the Overseer reported. "Are you saying these reports are in error?"

"Er – No, it was there. It's just–," suddenly a really uncomfortable thought occurred to him. Hagrid was the one that had given his Key to the Teller. But how did he get it? Suddenly Harry heard Hagrid's voice echo in his mind. _"An I've also got a letter here from Professor _Dumbledore," Hagrid said importantly, throwing out his chest._ "It's about the _You–Know–What_ in vault seven hundred and thirteen..._"

Hagrid coming to see him had been "Hogwarts business," or so he'd told the bartender at the Leaky Cauldron. So had retrieving the Sorcerer's Stone from vault seven hundred and thirteen. To get his money out of his vault Hagrid would've had to have his Key, but no one besides the guardian could have had it to give him. _'And wasn't Hagrid always going on about how great Dumbledore was?'_ Harry asked himself._ 'He'd do anything for the old man without asking why_.'

And then Hermione's voice sprang to mind, _"We were dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall – he already knew – he just said 'Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?' and hurtled off to the third floor."_

And then she was replaced by Ron, _"D'you think he _meant_ for you to do it? Sending you your father's Cloak and everything?"_

Harry's mind bounced back to that Christmas, _"Your father left this in my possession before he died–"_

_"__Well," _Hermione exploded back into his mind again. _"If he did – I mean to say – that's terrible – you could have been killed."_

_'__But Dumbledore had rushed to help me. He saved me, didn't he?'_ Harry asked himself.

_'__We can't know that,_' the Harold side of him said. _'Quirrell could have already been dead by the time he got there. We were unconscious, so how would we know the difference? He could have just taken credit for it.'_

_'__Then why didn't he just kill us then_?' the Harry side asked.

_'__Maybe he doesn't want to get his hands dirty. But if horrible things just happen around us..._'

No part of him liked where this was going. Especially since he was now talking to himself in his own head.

"What will happen to them?" Harry asked the others. "The people around the guardian. The ones who knew about the Dursleys and didn't think anything of it. I can't think they'd betray me like that, no matter what _his_ motives might be," Harry said scornfully, unable to bring himself to say the name.

"I can't see charges sticking against the people who didn't know any better even if you wanted to make them," Barchoke said. "We all made the same mistake, so there's plenty of blame to go around. It's the money we're going after and this guardian is the one who took it. Him and the ones he gave money to, they're the ones Gringotts will be holding liable for the debt."

"You know who he is," Lichfield said. "You know who has the Key." He hadn't said it like a question.

"I want to see what happened to the last Account Manager," the Harry that was Harold said. "The one before Gropegold." He looked Lichfield in the eye and didn't say it like a request.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** The HP series has always been very Harry-centric, as if he were the center of the universe and the only person able to do anything to change it; it is this very failing of Rowling's world that I'm striving to combat by treating it in this story as a multi-polar world. Every character - no matter how small - is going to be treated as a real, independent person with their own goals, drives, opinions, and backstory. Likewise they're going to react and do what they think they should do; not be enslaved to any preconceived 'plot' that suddenly demands them to be stupid for no reason.

In Chapter 6 you'll get the first taste of this as the point of view starts splitting off to show parts of the world as a different character sees it. This has the effect though of slowing down the passage of time in the story (just shy of 14 days in 27 chapters) as the roughly 20 POV characters have to react accordingly (though thankfully not all at once). The reason this individuality and shifting POV is such a core part of the story is that they allow me to show parts of the world that Harry would never see. They allow me to establish them, to make sense of them, to show how they function, and then to show how they – and the characters – start to shift in response to the changes in other areas and thereby get the world as a whole to change.

And while there's been times when I've felt frustrated reading a fanfic when the writer seemed to deviate and go off on tangents for too long when I simply wanted the story to get back to Harry, I feel like I have to solidly ground things in how things are in this world because my philosophy is that this is the world that Rowling built. On its surface it may be ahistorical, nonsensical, and fly in the face of everything we know of how a society like this would function, but that doesn't give me the right to unilaterally change things in a sentence that she spent books putting into place. If I'm going to get things to change (and no doubt I am), I first have to establish how things are and show the steps that lead to it changing. Only then can I take a more hands off and distant approach when furthering that change.

On a similar note, I'm glad of the reception I've gotten with my heavily restricted version of the "Harry goes to Gringotts" trope. Thanks for being open to something new and, as always_–_

Thanks for reading.


	6. The Price

**AN:** There's been a lot of legal talk, and several reviewers have asked for a quick, concise recap of everything. I've finally found an excuse to give it, so now everyone can be on the same page on what's going on.

This chapter is dedicated to two White Buffalo Women: the one who will read this and made Lichfield who he is, and the one who will never read it and who made me into Lichfield.

.o0O0o.

_"__You know who he is," Lichfield said. "You know who has the Key." He hadn't said it like a question._

_"__I want to see what happened to the last Account Manager," the Harry that was Harold said. "The one before Gropegold." He looked Lichfield in the eye and didn't say it like a request._

Lichfield looked him in the eye for a long moment after that, as if seeing him for the first time. The stump–like face betrayed nothing – but if he was looking for him to blink, Harry was stubbornly resolved not to give it to him. If they were asking him to believe what they're telling him to believe, to put his very first friend in a position to be betrayed by the same guardian that had betrayed him or be torn apart by the goblins if the gentle giant didn't believe them, then Harry had to know that what they were saying was real. He had to help Hagrid as much as he could, and that demanded he take something from them first.

The old wizard turned and looked at the Overseer, the goblin now oddly silent, subdued. The goblin tersely nodded, as if agreeing to a deal that'd leave him without a knut to his name.

"You want me to go with you?" the warlock asked, a genuine look of concern on his harsh face.

"No," the Overseer said gruffly with a shake of his head. "I'll take him. You – you go–." Words seem to fail him and Harry wondered what it was exactly he had asked for.

"I'll go see to these forms, shall I?" Lichfield said rising and collecting the forms that Harry had signed. "It'd give me a chance to find these Weasleys and look to other things," he said with a glance to Harry.

"Yes, yes. Good," the goblin said. "You can find us when you're done."

Lichfield glanced at him again, gnarled finger gesturing to the bulging hand–me–downs that Harry had smuggled into the building, silently asking if he wanted the warlock to take them. Harry nodded and handed them over, glad to see the last of them.

It was in silence that the Litigator left them, and it was a silence that lingered.

The goblin rearranged his files with his eyes on his work, seeming to take comfort in the neatly ordered nature of a tidy desk. Settled once again, Barchoke seemed to gather himself once more.

"I think I may have to start by apologizing for Lichfield," the goblin said.

"He didn't seem to like me much at the end there," Harry replied.

"Oh, no. He liked you, he liked you," the goblin reassured him somberly. "If he hadn't, he never would have compared you to Charlus," he explained. "They were very close ever since their school days, from what he's said. Any number of things could've gotten him into that funk."

Once again the goblin's files were arranged just so. Harry spotted the nondescript shoebox Cadogan had given him to house his old peeling trainers and picked it up off the floor where it had fallen.

"What I think I should apologize for is Lichfield's business manner, or lack thereof," the Overseer said.

"It's alright," Harry replied. "I like the jokes."

"So do I, despite the fact that they're always at my expense," the goblin chuckled, lightening the mood. "Usually, Lester's the type to either sit there – like the stump you so aptly named him – and look intimidating, or get in your face and roughly spout off every legal procedure and hurtle we can do to you unless you comply. You wouldn't believe how fast he can make people cave under pressure."

Having seen that gruff face up close, not to mention the sharpness of the litigator's mind, Harry was glad to have him looking out for _his_ interests rather than arrayed against him.

"He was brought into this because of his past familiarity with the Potters and the Potter Account," the goblin explained. "He would've been on the war path if he hadn't been, and that's exactly the kind of litigator you need. Get him around a Potter though–" Barchoke made a dismissive gesture, "and apparently that 'professional wall,' as he calls it, disappears entirely. Definitely not the impression I was hoping to give by bringing you to an Overseer's office," he finished self–deprecatingly.

The appraising look entered his eye again.

"You seemed to get him there at the end though, _Mr. Potter_," the Overseer said, emphasizing that last part. "Maybe his case won't be so hard to make with you. Got a bit of a spine to you, don't you?"

Harry gave an embarrassed shrug.

"Well don't let it go to your head," the Overseer warned quickly. "We may be _bankers_ more than warriors nowadays, but our guards practice the old ways, and they don't have a sense of humor at all."

Harry was reminded of the panic in Gropegold's eyes as they dragged him away screaming, and wondered what was happening to the treacherous goblin now. He probably didn't want to know.

"You try out there–," Barchoke waved towards the door, "–what Lichfield did in here and you're liable to get yourself killed, and that would make everything we've done here–"

"–Irrelevant," Harry said. "Yeah, he told me."

"There was a lot of legal talk too," Barchoke fingered his files again, as if looking for a way to stall. "He and I have been dealing with this kind of stuff for years. You might be lost. Anything you didn't understand?"

"I think I got the basics," Harry said. "I was born in the magical world, to magical parents, and _never_ should've been placed with the Dursleys. The fact that I _was_," Harry felt his anger rise, "tells you that the Ministry appointed a guardian to watch out for me. That guardian is the one who left me with my aunt and uncle and has been in control of my account since my parents died."

Barchoke nodded. "What else?"

"Something funny happened to the last Account Manager and Gropegold took over," Harry recited. "This guardian has been using him to steal money from my account. We've Sealed the account, which stops him from doing anything more–" Harry stopped. "But you still haven't said how Gropegold was stealing and where all the money went," he told the Overseer.

"Oh, we didn't?" Barchoke perked up. "Personally, I find it _fascinating_."

Having picked up on the goblin's love of procedures and files anything _he_ found fascinating would probably have him stuck in this office for what felt like another week.

"Just the basics will be fine," Harry said quickly.

"Oh, well, it's pretty straight forward then," the goblin said. "Take today, for instance. We have a large transfer from your account to a do–gooder charity, a wizarding institution, and large phony investments into muggle companies."

"Why would they give money to a charity?" Harry asked. "I thought he'd keep it all."

"Same here, but that's what has Lichfield thinking that this guardian is some high society type. Someone who likes to be seen doing good works – all the while they're stealing from a child to do it."

The Overseer checked his files again.

"Something called the – The Hogwarts Hopefuls," the goblin said. "We've never even heard of them," the goblin explained. "Probably some program set up to help graduating students find jobs. I'll never understand this human thing of doing something for nothing. That stops now. They'll just have to get jobs on their own," the Overseer said definitively.

"Is there anything that ties things to Hogwarts directly?" Harry asked, already thinking he knew the answer.

"Yes, but this one's not that uncommon," the goblin said. "At least it didn't use to be. Another large transfer was due for the Hogwarts Operational Fund."

Barchoke noticed the confused look on Harry's face.

"It's the account that handles the day–to–day spending for the school. They seem to be the biggest beneficiary from the Transfer Orders that were supposed to be processed today."

"And why would Hogwarts need all that money?" Harry said harshly, his anger at the Headmaster seeping through into his tone.

"At this point in the year, they shouldn't need it at all," the goblin said.

"Yeah, why would a school need money during the summer?"

"Oh, no. It's not that," the Overseer said. "It's that today is the first day of the school year."

"Wait, no it's not," Harry said.

"Yes it is," the goblin said confused.

"No, it's _not_," Harry said stubbornly.

_"__Yes, _it is," the goblin said just as stubbornly back.

"Term doesn't begin until September the first," Harry declared.

"Aha!" the goblin said triumphantly. "Term doesn't begin until September, but the fiscal year starts today," he said with a grin. "Their account should be flowing with gold at the moment, so why would this guardian donate to the Beggar's Circuit?"

"The Beggar's Circuit?"

"That's what your grandfather called it," Barchoke explained. "If Hogwarts goes over budget and needs the extra cash, the Headmaster will go around to rich old alumni to try and shake a little money out of them. Apparently this guardian of yours thinks you're really generous."

Harry had always wondered what the Headmaster actually did for the school. Apparently, before he started stealing money from his account, he had actually served a purpose.

"Just how generous does he think I am?" Harry asked hotly.

"Take this transfer here for example," Barchoke said, holding up a piece of parchment. "To put it in terms you'd understand, these Hopefuls were going to get enough gold to pay for twenty one years of tuition."

"Twenty one–!"

"Years," the goblin repeated.

"I'm paying for twenty one people to go to school? That's enough for me and half my class!" Harry exclaimed, dreading the thought that he was paying for the likes of Malfoy.

"It's more than that when you consider that your schooling was paid for in full before you were even born," the goblin laughed.

"Wait, you mean I really did have my name down before I was born?" Harry asked.

"A really good investment strategy on your grandfather's part," Barchoke nodded. "Pay for it in bulk now so if the price goes up it doesn't affect you. I've recommended the same be done to everyone I oversee. Most have seen the logic of doing it at least once."

"So what is Hogwarts doing with all this money?" Harry asked, his love for the castle waning by the minute.

"Honestly, I couldn't say," the goblin told him.

"And why not?"

"Because I don't know," Barchoke held up his hands. "I oversee Hereditary Accounts. As long as they seem to make money and the Account–Holder doesn't complain, I can't look into things. Hogwarts, however, is a completely separate department unto itself. All staffed by humans," he finished with a grumble.

"A _human_ Overseer?" Harry asked, rather confused at the concept.

"Just the one," Barchoke explained. "About a hundred years ago a particularly loathsome Headmaster, we call Phineas the Foul, refused to have anything to do with goblins and threatened to have Hogwarts to do all its banking itself. Rather than fight him on it, the Grand Overseer at the time decided to set Hogwarts up as a separate department and man it by humans to placate him."

"That's awful," Harry said.

"Well, that's Phineas–," the Overseer stopped, his eyes popping. "My apologies, I didn't mean to offend you," he said to Harry.

"Why would that offend me?" Harry asked confused. "He sounds like a racist old git."

"He also happens to be your grandmother's grandfather," Barchoke explained.

At that moment Harry could have heard a pin drop.

"Oh," Harry said. He had never thought that any of his family could've been so bad as to be called Foul. _'Then again,'_ Harry thought to himself, _'the _Dursleys_ are certainly foul and they're a lot closer to me than some grandmother's grandfather.'_

"So," Harry said to get things going again. "How do you know they're phony muggle investments?"

"Because we can't invest in the muggle world," the Overseer said simply.

"Wait – Really?"

"You have any idea what would happen if wizarding gold flooded the world market?" Barchoke asked. "It'd be worse than what happened six hundred years ago. We'd be lucky if things took a hundred years to work itself out! Gropegold probably thought he was being clever by not exchanging the Galleons for Pounds. That much of an exchange would have gotten him caught for sure. We'll track it down. If there's one thing Gringotts is good at it's following the money."

Harry looked back out to the view of both magical and muggle London.

"Then how can you stand to look out there?" Harry asked. "There must be hundreds of businesses in London alone that you could be investing in."

"Exactly," Barchoke said. "We built this bank up so high to give every goblin in management a view of what's been denied us. That's the price that comes from overplaying your hand. That's why we're being cautious."

Harry stared out the curved window again for a while, wondering what it'd be like to see another world day–after–day and never be able to touch it. To be locked inside one building and one street. _'It'd be like being back in the cupboard under the stairs,_' Harry thought. _'Only to look out of the grate and see Hogwarts, knowing I'll never be able to get there._'

Barchoke cleared his throat and Harry turned back to him.

"Are you – are you sure you want to see him?" Barchoke asked. "The last Account Manager, Hammerhand. There's nothing you can do."

"If Lichfield's right, then he was probably attacked because he refused to help this guardian steal money from my dead parents," Harry said. "The least I can do is go and see him."

Barchoke nodded and rose from his seat, taking his Concealer with him.

"On the way, I can explain why we'd like this rental agreement," the goblin smiled.

_'__Oh joy,_' Harry thought as the two left the room together.

.o0O0o.

Ginny Weasley smiled as she reached her favorite part of her favorite book.

_Harry's eyes blazed like brilliant emerald suns. His gaze seemed to reach into the very heart of her, warming her, claiming her. His strong arms circled around her in a protective embrace._

_"__Oh Harry, you're so brave!" the red–haired girl exclaimed. Her bodice was ripped and torn from the Monster's heinous claws, her bosom heaving as she seemed to breathe for the first time since he left to do battle with the fearsome beast._

_"__I thought that you'd surely be killed!" she cried, crushing herself against the strong masculine form of her savior._

_"__Never, while you still live," Harry said as he smiled. Oh, how he smiled a smile that seemed to fill the entirety of the Chamber itself with warmth._

_"__Not even Slytherin's fearsome beast could keep me from you," Harry said softly. "And with mighty Gryffindor's help, I've slain the beast, and no one will ever need to fear from it again."_

_The girl looked down to the sword on Harry's hip; its brilliant rubies seemed to radiate the fire of Harry's love for her until they shone with the very color of her hair._

_"__Oh Harry."_

_'__Oh Harry,_' Ginny thought as she snapped the book shut and clutched it to her heart. _'One day he'll come,_' she said to herself. _'One day my Harry will come for me.'_

"Hello there, Weasley family?" a strange rough voice called from somewhere near causing her to jump in fright.

"Wh–who's there?" the red–headed girl called.

"I'm Litigator Lichfield of Gringotts Bank, and I'm looking for the Weasley residence."

Ginny scrambled from her seat at the old dining room table and raced her way to the fireplace, slightly slipping on the smooth wooden floor. She tightened her bath robe around her. There, sure enough, was an old grizzled face staring up at her from the fire.

_'__It's hard to tell his face from the other logs on the fire,_' she thought to herself. Quickly she gave herself a mental kick. _'That's not the way Harry's beloved behaves,_' she reminded herself. _'She's always polite and demure.'_

"This is the Burrow," she said to the man, hoping she came off as polite. "I'm Ginny Weasley. My mother's out back, do I need to get her?"

"Not necessary," the man said. "You can tell me what I need to know. Is this the home of a lad named Ron Weasley, or is there another place I should look?"

"Yes, he's here," Ginny said, confused. "What would a litigator need with my brother? Is he in trouble?" Ginny asked smiling. She loved getting her brothers in trouble.

"Not at all. Just confirming the location," the strange litigator said. "I call on behalf of a certain client of mine, a client that your brother invited to stay with your family this summer."

"Invited to stay?" the girl asked. "The only person Ron's asked to stay was–." Suddenly her eyes went wide and she turned as pale as a sheet. "Oh, Merlin!"

"Yep," the rough old man said. "This is the place. He'll be there shortly."

With that the man's head disappeared from the fire with a _pop_.

_'__Oh Merlin!'_ Ginny thought to herself. _'Harry's coming. And he's got a _litigator_. He's going to ask dad for my bride price!'_

The little girl ran to her room to get ready for what was sure to be the most important day in her young life.

.o0O0o.

Harry opened the door slowly, not knowing what he'd find. Barchoke had said that his old boss, Hammerhand, had been kept to an office by himself and away from the goblins that lived below ground after his family had managed to win compensation from the bank for his injury. He had also warned him that the familiarity Hammerhand had with his family might cause a bit of distress, so he should be mindful to play along.

What he hadn't expected was the sheer number of papers strewn about the room. Parchment was stuck to every available surface, some with large strange symbols, others with rows of numbers, while others had pictures of animals in various states of dress. Stags and snakes seemed particularly popular. Snakes with beards.

A goblin with thin wisps of white hair sticking up in every direction sat at the completely cluttered desk and was clothed in a thin dirty robe that reminded him forcefully of Dobby. Hammerhand seemed intent on his latest picture. The sound of the door must have alerted him for it was less than half open when the mad old goblin looked directly at him.

"James!" Hammerhand cried, mistaking Harry for his father. The goblin quickly ran around the desk to take his hand and sending papers fluttering along behind him. "Come in, come in!" the goblin said with a mad grin as he pulled him into the room. "Here, take a seat and tell me what's been going on."

Hammerhand tossed a stack of parchment out of the room's single visitor's chair and plopped Harry down upon it.

"Here for a bit of spending money, eh?" the old goblin said jovially. "You'll not get a knut without your father's say if you've gone over your allowance, young man," he laughed. Harry looked into his eyes, the lights there dim and disjointed.

"How are you feeling, Hammerhand?" Harry asked.

"Oh, fine, fine. Can't complain," the old goblin replied with a wan smile and vacant face.

The old Account Manager looked down at the shoebox in Harry's hands and tutted.

"James, James," he said. "A present? You've gone to presents now? I've told you before, new robes and a flashy broom is no way to woo a witch. Certainly not a witch worth wooing. Please don't tell me that's for her."

"Er – No, sir," Harry said, thinking quickly. "It's for my father."

"Oh yes," Hammerhand said somberly. "Terrible thing, that. I suppose anything that makes them happy in what time they have remaining–."

The dam finally broke and Hammerhand started to wail.

"Why, James, why?" the old goblin balled, clutching to the front of Harry's robes as tears ran down its cheeks. "Why did they have to die?"

"It's – It's okay," Harry tried to comfort the distressed old goblin. "It's just their time."

Harry looked over to Barchoke, silently asking for help.

"Too old!" Hammerhand wept. "Too old, too soon."

Barchoke reached down to the floor and picked up a stack of the parchment that Hammerhand had sent flying to make room for Harry to sit.

"Sir," Barchoke said eagerly as if he had just come in. "I've got that file you wanted to see."

As quickly as that the old goblin was back to the way he was before his outburst.

"File? Oh! Barchoke! Come in," Hammerhand said. "Where have you been? Go make yourself useful and get young James here some tea."

"I'd love to, sir," Barchoke said, playing along. "Lichfield wants me to run him through something in Legal first though."

"Hm? Legal?" Hammerhand asked with a finger to his lips, looking for a moment very much like Barchoke. "Yes, I suppose it must be important if Lichfield's harping on about it. Very dedicated man there. We can catch up when you get done, James," he said to Harry and patted him on the arm. "And we can work on this _Lily_ problem of yours. Throwing money about is not the way to get her. You just have to be you, James. That should be enough for her."

It was with a knot in the stomach that Harry realized that the old goblin had been talking about his mother the whole time.

"I'll keep that in mind, sir," Harry said.

Harry turned to go but Hammerhand grabbed him his robes and held him close, so they were eye–to–eye. The goblin might've been old but his grip was as iron hard as his name implied and his eyes were no longer dim but sharp with a different kind of madness.

"I tried to warn them," Hammerhand said gruffly. "But they wouldn't see."

"Sir?" Harry asked as he tried to peel the old goblin's hands off him.

"The figures and the sums," the Account Manager whispered. "They're not there. The snake. The snake took them! I don't like him! He took them!"

"I don't like him either, sir," Harry said, seeing one of the snake pictures on the wall. A snake with a long white beard.

"I tried to warn them," the goblin said again as Barchoke tried to separate them. "But they were as dumb as a door!"

"Sir!" Barchoke shouted. "Legal? James needs to go to Legal now."

Hammerhand's grip relaxed.

"Legal? Yes, yes," the goblin said with a wave. "Then why is he still here? I swear, Barchoke, you must be more diligent."

Hammerhand took up a handful of parchment and returned to his desk as Harry and Barchoke slipped back outside. Just as the door closed there came a cry from the other side. "As dumb as a door!"

"So you find what you were looking for?" a gruff voice asked behind him.

Harry turned to see Lichfield standing by the wall.

"Yes," Harry said. "I know who has the Key."

"We're really going to feel as dumb as a door when you tell us, aren't we?" Barchoke asked, his Concealer back in his hand.

"You could say that," Harry said.

.o0O0o.

The flames died down as the floo connection closed and the Overseer grew concerned.

"Do you think we should have warned him about the Weasleys?" he asked Lichfield as he fiddled with his Concealer, the salsa dancers it contained again giving him no comfort. He knew what his answer would've been if the question had been asked to him instead. "He should know, but I saw that look you had."

"It's better that he not know. He's friends with them. It's best that he's just himself for a while."

"He'll be embarrassed," Barchoke said.

"He'll be humble, and they'll know he's sincere. If they're going to take him seriously they've got to get to know him and what that means for the future."

"I know you're right on that," the goblin said. "It's what Charlus would've done. I think James would have told him though."

"You could never tell with James," Lester said. "He grew up. Especially if what your father says is true. And he grew cautious. Perhaps too cautious. How did your father take seeing him, by the way?"

"Remarkably well," Barchoke replied. "He only cried once, but it was a short visit."

"Part of me hopes I'm right about him. The same part that hopes that Harry's wrong."

"I know the feeling. He's put together more than enough to get us a peek at–" even with the Concealer the goblin looked around and didn't dare use the name. "–at _his_ file. But if we don't see anything there won't be anything we can do."

"And _he_," Lichfield said, sharing his friend's caution, "hasn't been sloppy enough to leave anything around that could be easily traced back to himself. No one around him will be easy to interview without tipping him off either. Until we can tear down the protections around Hogwarts itself we may not find anything."

"The fact that Harry picked up on all that is remarkable," Barchoke said. "Worthy of your old line of work."

Lichfield nodded with a grunt.

"Did you see the way he took charge?" the goblin asked. "I was not expecting that."

Lichfield chose not to comment.

"He must have known that he wouldn't be able to control everything once Harry entered Hogwarts," Barchoke continued. "But the depth of secrecy here, I haven't seen anything like it since You–Know–Who. I blame this on you. Damn you for always saying you wanted to go after someone intelligent. I prefer my criminals to be dumber than dragon droppings."

Lichfield turned to go.

"Where are you going?" the goblin scurried after him. "We've got a file to look at."

"You look at the file, there won't be anything there," the old bailiff said as the goblin tried to keep up with him. "I'm going track down whoever conducted the Knight Bus today and confirm where Harry was picked up–."

"We know where he lived, he have his address. And the coin will show–"

"Thoroughness," Lichfield interrupted. "That's how we'll win this thing. I'm interviewing them, this Cadogan man," he gestured with the box that contained Harry's old shoes that was supposed to be a gift for the shoemaker. "–And whoever altered his robes this morning. That was a Hogwarts cut or I'm some flirty French flipskirt. I'm documenting every step that boy took since the time he started to walk."

"He said he didn't want the Dursleys involved."

"Then I'll interview everyone else on that street if I have to. I'm not having anyone say that the wrong person locked down his Account or bewitched him to do it."

"–You think someone would – How do you even think these things?" the Overseer asked coming to a halt.

"Vigilance!" the Litigator cried as his long stride carried him away.

.o0O0o.

After trying on two others – a light blue that was said to be Harry's favorite, and a green for the color of his eyes – Ginny had picked a light, white sundress with pale flowers that she hoped would make her look bride–like. She looked at herself in the mirror. Had she always been so pale? Ginny pinched her cheeks to bring more color to them.

She looked at the small clock on her desk. Harry should be here any minute. Ginny had no idea exactly when he would arrive, but she had to assume the worst. She had hoped to have time to pick flowers for an impromptu bouquet – wildflowers to suit her nature – but now didn't think she'd have the time. _'I've _got_ to make a good impression,_' she reminded herself for the thousandth time. Maybe she should change back to the blue?

_'__No,_' she thought. _'White's good, white's pure, white's virtuous. White makes me look so pale_,' she whined to herself.

Deciding it was too late to change again, Ginny darted out of her room.

"Oi!" Her brother Ron said as she knocked him into the banister on the stairs. "Watch it! Where are you going all dressed up?"

"Nowhere, go away," Ginny groused as she headed to the kitchen.

Ron may have invited Harry but she certainly didn't want him to ruin this for her. Today was the day she fixed what went wrong last year at the train station. _'Gone is the little girl,_' she thought. _'Today I'm a young woman._'

George whistled when she entered.

"Will you take a look at her?" he asked, tossing a Quaffle back and forth from hand to hand.

"What's got you all gussied up? Lil' miss expecting a suitor?" Fred asked hefting a beater's bat threateningly.

"What? No!" she said a little too quickly before shooting them a look that said _Don't you dare threaten my Harry._

"Oh boys, honestly," her mother said, coming through the kitchen with a load of wash to hang on the line outside. "It's not a crime for a girl to look nice from time to time. Leave her alone."

"Thanks, mum," Ginny said embarrassed, wishing they would all leave the room too.

She may never understand why her mother insisted with line drying the wash when magic was more convenient, no matter how often she said it smelled clean. At least it got her out of the room. Ginny thought she'd make a horrible housewife. _'I can learn,_' she thought to herself. _'I can learn for Harry. But I have to get him first._'

Ron came through with another beater's bat in hand and her brothers turned to go with identical shakes of their twin heads. Ginny shook hers right back. If Ron thought he was going to be anything other than target practice for their Bludgers today then he was sadly mistaken.

Before they could even reach the back door the fireplace flared to life like a brilliant emerald sun.

_'__This is it!'_ Ginny thought as suddenly all the air seemed to leave the room at once. She felt light–headed. _'Don't pass out. Don't pass out,_' she chanted to herself as her entire world seemed to narrow to only that bright green flame.

Harry Potter stepped jaunting out of the flames in his stylish shoes as he shook off the dust of his latest adventure. Wind seemed to ripple around him as the flames died down; his handsome robes billowed behind him.

"Harry?" twin voices asked astonished.

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"You invited me," Harry smiled.

_'__Oh how he smiles,_' Ginny thought as she gazed in wonder at the dream made flesh.

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" Ron asked, still perplexed. "Did dad come and get you?"

"No, I came from Gringotts," Harry explained. "Didn't Lichfield tell you I'd be here?"

"Not to us he didn't," George said, giving Ginny a look.

_'__Lichfield_,' Ginny thought as she tried to catch her breath. _'Lichfield the litigator. He should be right behind._'

"Mum! Harry's here!" Ron called to her.

She eyed the fireplace apprehensively as the others talked. _'Oh why couldn't dad be here so this could be done with?'_ she lamented, eager to start her new life as a soon–to–be–wife.

"Did someone say Harry?" her mother asked as she came back inside. "Oh, Harry! It's so good to see you…"

Moments passed and still no one else had arrived. Was there something wrong with their floo?

"Merlin!" her mother cried. "I've got the wash still on the line." She bolted back outside to hide the offensive laundry from their company. Ginny didn't know how much more embarrassment she could take.

_'__Please don't let this go wrong!'_

"Ginny!" her mother cried. "Ginny, come get your knickers!"

Ginny's world went black and she vaguely had the sense of falling. The poor girl fell to the floor with a _thump._

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Well, he's out of the room and Ginny's been floored so I think I'll leave it there for now.

Thanks for reading.


	7. Borrowed

**AN:** So much happens in this chapter in terms of character development that we'd better get started right away.

.o0O0o.

The swirl movement and the smell of ash was disorienting. Something bumped into his elbow hard causing it to go numb. Closing his eyes to avoid the worst of the nausea wizards seemed to think went hand–in–hand with traveling, Harry managed not to lose his lunch; not that he had had lunch. In the hours he spent in Gringotts lunch had been completely forgotten, and now Harry was glad for it. If he had anywhere to go in the wizarding world from now on, he was going to make sure not to eat anything the entire day before.

Just as he was beginning to forget which way was up, Harry felt a great swell of heat and the sensation of being pushed. Remembering what Lichfield had said, Harry relaxed and just went with it. His feet hit solid ground again, the polished wooden floor threatening to make him slip. Harry's shoes held firm though and he silently thanked the odd shoemaker for their 'plenty of grip.' After the flippy elevator of Gringotts, Harry thought he could handle anything.

The last gout of flame caused his robe to blow up around him, kicking up a bit of ash that had somehow settled on him on his way through the fire. Harry brushed off what he could as he took in the surprised faces of his three favorite redheads.

"Harry?" twin voices asked astonished.

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"You invited me," Harry smiled; amused that he could have forgotten.

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" Ron asked, still perplexed. "Did Dad come and get you?"

"No, I came from Gringotts," Harry explained. "Didn't Lichfield tell you I'd be here?" he asked, gesturing to the fire he'd just stepped out of.

"Not to us he didn't," one of the twins said.

Ron ran to the door of what appeared to be a very warm and homey kitchen.

"Mum! Harry's here!" Ron called to her.

"Traveling a bit light there, don't you think?" the other twin asked with a smile. Harry thought it was Fred.

"Actually, no," Harry said, somewhat embarrassed. "I might need to talk to your parents about that."

"Did someone say Harry?" a stout, cheery–faced red–headed woman asked as she came inside. "Oh, Harry! It's so good to see you," she said, recognizing him from the station the year before. "Sorry things are a bit of a mess," she said to him quietly. "Just in the middle of a good cleaning."

"Oh, that's fine by me," Harry said.

"Oh, Merlin!" Mrs. Weasley cried, her hand going to her mouth in shock. "I've got the wash still on the line." She bolted back outside to hide the offensive laundry from their company.

"Our mother–," the twin he thought was George said with a shake of his head.

"–Completely mental," the twin he thought was Fred finished for him, his voice a bit louder to drown out whatever it was his mother called from outside.

There was a heavy _thump_ to his right. Harry looked over and saw a spray of red hair coming out of a flowery dress and a girl on the floor where she had collapsed. He hadn't even noticed her.

"Oh look!" George said to Harry with cheeky grin as he and Fred went to check on her. "Our sister's fallen for you."

"Does she do that often?" Harry asked, concerned for the youngest Weasley's health.

"Only for guys she _really_ likes," Fred joked as they helped the fallen Weasley to the living room sofa.

"Mum!" Ron yelled from the door. "I think Ginny's fainted."

Mrs. Weasley quickly returned with a basket full of laundry, a thick towel serving as a cover to hide what was inside.

"She fainted? What do you mean she fainted? Ginny doesn't–." Mrs. Weasley's eyes sought out her daughter before bouncing back and forth between her and Harry. "Yes, well," Mrs. Weasley covered. "That can sometimes happen."

It took some time for some time for the girl to recover. Harry thought she might be sick as well, she was so very pale.

"Nah," Ron assured him. "She always looks like that. Well, not the dress. Usually she just loafs around in her bathrobe."

"Yeah," George said. "Don't know what she was thinking–"

"–Why would today be special?" Fred finished with a look to Harry.

Ginny was laying on the sofa with a cool cloth on her forehead when she finally came around.

"Oh, Mum," the girl said groggily. "I had the most wonderful dream. My Harry had come and–"

_"Ginny, we have company_," Mrs. Weasley said, cutting off the rest of her daughter's sentence.

Harry leaned out from around her brothers to get a better look.

"Hello," was all he said.

Little Ginny turned beet red.

_'Well there's the color_,' Harry thought to himself.

"Ron, Fred, George," their mother said as way of reprimand. "Why's Harry still standing around? Go help him take his stuff upstairs."

"We tried," Ron said.

"Unless he's got it hidden in his pockets, he's got nothing with him." George explained.

"Apparently he sleeps _starkers_," Fred said with a glance to his sister as she turned to try to bury herself into the folds of the couch.

"I needed to talk to you about that, Mrs. Weasley," an embarrassed Harry said. "I've actually got a lot stuff that's going to be delivered. I hope you don't mind."

"Delivered? Oh, not to worry, dear," the cheerful woman said with a wave. "Ron's got plenty of room. We'll make do."

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, "but this is a lot of stuff."

"What'd you do, buy out Madam Malkin's?" Fred asked with a look at Harry's robes.

"Not exactly."

"He could always use one of Bill or Charlie's old rooms," Ron said.

"Absolutely not," his mother replied. "They might decide to pop by for the weekend and then where would we be?"

"If they planned to pop by–," George said.

"–They wouldn't have moved so far away," Fred finished.

Harry was trying to think of a way to get the magnitude of the problem across when a clock chimed and Mrs. Weasley scurried over to take a look.

"That'll be Arthur," she said as she moved. "Wonder what's going on, he's _never_ home this early."

Harry followed her, eager to get a look at a magical home. From somewhere behind him, Harry heard a door close. Glancing back to the couch, it seemed that the girl had disappeared up to her room.

What Mrs. Weasley was so interested in turned out to be a very unusual clock, it had a multitude of hands and no numbers at all, written around the edge were things like 'Time to make tea,' 'Time to feed the chickens,' and 'You're late.' The hand labeled _Arthur_ was pointed directly at _Work_, it was another hand that was moving.

"It's Bill!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, heading for the door to the garden.

"What's _he_ doing here?" George asked.

"He's hardly ever in range," Fred commented.

Bill, who Harry knew to be the oldest of the Weasley brothers, had bounced on the clock from Traveling to Work, back to Traveling, before finally landing at Home.

"Hey Weasleys!" a voice called from outside.

Harry arrived at the garden just in time to see Mrs. Weasley almost knock a young man over in her rush to hug him. The man himself came as a bit of a shock. _'This is the Weasley from Gringotts?'_ Harry wondered. He had heard that Bill had been Head Boy during his time at Hogwarts and had imagined him to be an older version of Percy: fussy about rule–breaking and fond of bossing everyone around.

While Harry would never classify the man as _"dreamy_," as the secretaries had, Bill was nonetheless _cool_ – at least he would have been if he wasn't being hugged around the neck by his mother. He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail, and was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it – a new addition if his mother's expression was anything to go by. Bill's clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognized that his boots weren't made of leather, but of dragon hide. He wondered if Cadogan had made them.

"Did you buy new furniture from someone dodgy?" Bill asked once he was free of his mother's clutches.

"Now where would we get the money for new furniture, let alone meet someone dodgy?" a confused Mrs. Weasley asked.

Now that the spectacle of Bill had faded, Harry noticed that the young man wasn't alone. He had brought a small horde of goblins with him. Two of them had his trunk between them, another had Hedwig's cage, four had his wardrobe, _eight_ were carrying his bed, and in a blur of movement one went flying off randomly upwards – only to fall back down to earth again ten feet away from where he had started. It seemed as if Harry's broom had been a bit too eager to be off.

"Mr. Potter?" the goblin in charge said as it marched up to the only non–redhead in sight and Bill launched into the story of his strange journey to muggle land. "Retrieval Specialist Dirtclaw, I've got something for you from Overseer Barchoke."

From the inside of the goblin's scarlet coat came a small hard–backed eyeglass case; inside was his very own Blood Quill.

"The Overseer said to keep that on you at all times. Litigator Lichfield said for you to hide it until you need it and to clean it regularly," the goblin recited. "I'll leave it to you to decide how to match those up. You also get this," he said, taking out a small leather–bound book full of tiny forms.

"And these are?" Harry asked.

"Your cheques," Dirtclaw explained. "The Overseer said you'd understand what to do, based on the additional security requirements of your account."

_'Of course_,' Harry thought. _'Sealed with Blood and Magic. For the cheques to be good they'd need them both_.'

"Right," Harry said as he stuffed both case and book into his pockets. "Thanks."

"You also need to sign this," Dirtclaw said, producing a clipboard with built in inkwell and quill holder, "to show you've received your belongings."

As Bill was busy keeping the other Weasleys distracted by pantomiming a confrontation between what looked to be a walrus and a herd of goblins – which didn't look to be going well for the walrus – Harry made his quick scratch with the Blood Quill, signed his name with the other, and covertly drew his wand to add his magical signature to the form.

Fred, George, and Ron broke out in laughter as the walrus went down for the count. Mrs. Weasley looked torn between whether to reprimand or be amused. If the look on Bill's face was anything to go by, Harry didn't think the Dursleys had a pleasant afternoon at all. _'Serves them right_,' Harry thought.

"Right then," Dirtclaw said. "Where do you want the tub?"

"The tub?" Harry asked, thinking for one crazy moment that the goblins had ripped out the Dursleys bathtub. _'That had _not_ been on any form that I had signed_,' Harry thought to himself, though he supposed Lichfield might have added it on there as some sort of joke.

"The tub," Dirtclaw repeated. "The one with your clothes," he explained, pointing to the small group of goblins struggling to haul a glossy white metal contraption trailing tubes and a trickle of water behind it.

Harry broke down laughing. The goblins had stolen Aunt Petunia's prized washing machine.

.o0O0o.

For the first time in his life, Harry was excited to be in his room. While the furniture was the same as the day before, this was a very different room. For one, it was in the Burrow, the home of the Weasley family, and for another – the room just felt free. Everything about it just shouted freedom to him, and Harry didn't mind in the least that it was a hand–me–down.

With an entire bedroom set to accommodate, Mrs. Weasley had been forced to admit that more than just a corner of Ron's room would be necessary to get all of Harry's things to fit into the house. Bill had volunteered his old room and quickly moved to shrink all of his old stuff down to take with him before his mother could voice her objections. She had drawn the line at the washing machine though. That remained right where it was, on the ground _outside_.

He had been surprised that Hedwig had turned up as well. Apparently she'd been resting up in Ron's room to make the trip back to Surrey, so she was already there when he arrived. Harry was glad that she understood how crazy his day had been and that he hadn't meant to make her take the trip in vain, he just didn't know he'd be coming.

The guys had been eager to show him their makeshift Quidditch pitch or for Harry to join them in hearing Bill's exploits as a Curse-breaker for Gringotts, but he had begged off saying that he had just about enough of Gringotts as he could stand for one day and just wanted to get settled in. This was how Harry found himself sitting at his own desk, in his own room – and faced with the most uncomfortable part of his day so far.

How was he supposed to start his letter to Hermione?

_'"Dear Hermione"?'_ he wondered._ 'No, that sounds like I'm down on one knee with a bouquet of flowers_.' He discarded that idea.

_'Just a simple "Hermione"?'_ Harry considered that one a moment. _'That one reminds me of how she signed that second letter_,' he finally realized. The last thing this letter was supposed to do was tell her that he didn't like her.

_'How about, "Hey, Hermione"?'_ Harry asked himself. _'It's not distant like just "Hermione" is, because she's still our friend, but it's not_ too _friendly or showering her with flower petals and chocolates_.' Harry nodded his head. That could work.

He dipped his quill in the inkwell and took a breath, readying himself to start. Quill poised over the parchment, his hands refused to move. They'd gone cold and numb, like they'd been turned to ice. Harry shook them to get his blood pumping again, sending ink splattering all over the place. He sighed, head slumping to the desk. _'Why did this have to be so hard?'_

Cautiously, Harry retrieved his wand. Straining to hear if anyone was nearby, he whispered a spell he remembered Hermione using when Ron had gotten ink all over his homework last year. The splattered ink now safely sucked up into his wand, Harry dashed over to the window to look for any incoming owls in the fading afternoon light.

As the minutes passed by Harry began to think that Lichfield was right, maybe the Ministry couldn't tell that he had done magic after all._ 'Still_,' Harry thought to himself. _'I'm going to have to keep what I do small, just so that I'm not found out. If Fred and George found out about that legal loophole they'd go _nuts_ and it'd be all over Hogwarts in half a second.'_ The Harold part of him said,_ 'For homework use only, young man.'_

_'Won't Hermione be surprised when we get to school and I already know some of the spells,_' the Harry part of him said with a grin._ 'That'd definitely make holding off on magic the rest of the time worthwhile_,' he thought. Studying did have its upside.

He sat back down at the desk and refilled his quill with ink, before he could write a thing though there was a knock on the door and Ron stuck his head inside.

"Hey, Harry, you hungry?"

"Starved," he answered, more in the hope that once food was in front of him his stomach would remember that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Good," Ron said as he came the rest of the way inside. "Mum's going nuts downstairs. Apparently having you and Bill here is reason enough to throw a party."

"She doesn't have to go through all that trouble," Harry said, not wanting to be even more of a bother than he already had been.

"Well," Ron said sheepishly, running a hand through his hair and not quite looking at him. "I did lay it on a bit thick about your birthday. Looks like she wants to make up for all of them."

Harry smiled. A belated Burrow birthday was definitely something worth writing about. _'Hermione could wait a _little_ longer_,' he decided.

Dinner was certainly a lively affair and Harry ate eagerly, his appetite coming back with a vengeance. Mrs. Weasley prompted him to get seconds and he had to tell her he was already on thirds. Word must've gotten around to Mr. Weasley that his son had come in from Egypt because he had rushed straight home, exploding toilets be damned. As excited as he was to see his eldest boy again he was positively over the moon when Harry told him that he could have the washing machine. Apparently Mr. Weasley was quite the fan of muggle appliances.

While Ron, Fred, and George were talking about the latest Quidditch standings, and Percy lamented his time out of his room and presumably homework, Mr. Weasley kept Harry to his side all night – all the better for the man to pick his brain about all things muggle. Mrs. Weasley kept shooting her husband looks that said he was being rude and kept trying to get her daughter to join her brothers' conversation. The girl, though, had obviously decided that the best course of action was to avoid being seen entirely. To be honest, Harry didn't mind. It just didn't seem right to be the object of one girl's attention when there was another one he wanted to talk to instead.

"So Harry," Bill said, cutting through his father's muggle talk as they passed around pieces of cake for dessert. "How is it that you've got a Litigator stalking the halls of Gringotts and an Overseer in charge of your account? I've never seen that happen before."

"It's pretty simple, really," Harry said, wanting to brush past the subject as quickly as possible. "I had my money stolen."

Ron dropped his fork and the silence afterwards couldn't have been more complete if he had insulted their beloved grandparents or suggested that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were brother and sister.

"Those little blighters are stealing from you?" Ron asked disbelievingly.

"Those _little blighters_ are my bosses, Ron, and they take stealing very seriously," Bill said with a stern look.

"How much did they get?" Fred asked.

"You got anything left?" seconded George.

"That's not really suitable for the dinner table," Mrs. Weasley cut in decisively with a look even worse than Bill's and promised harsh rebuke should anyone cross her.

After that conversation was a falsely pleasant affair, full of grand plans for a series of two–on–two Quidditch games starting tomorrow while Bill told them what life in Cairo was like. Harry was actually glad for Mrs. Weasley's insistence on the matter. The last thing he wanted to do was repay their kindness by telling them that the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world was nothing more than a crook that stole from children. Plus, until he had Barchoke's beloved rental agreement signed and sealed, which he had said would take Lichfield days to word in a way that no supposed guardian could interfere with, there was too much of a risk that one of them would run off to get Dumbledore's side of the story, and that would mess up the whole plan.

Ginny disappeared as soon as the party was over; hiding in her room as she had hidden behind her mother all night. Mrs. Weasley followed soon after, only pausing to hug Bill again and tell him to visit his poor old mother more often while her husband Arthur quickly slipped out to fiddle with his new washing machine as soon as his wife wasn't looking. The man was practically giggling with nervous energy. Harry thought he might be a little mad, at least when it came to muggle things.

Ron and the twins were all set to drag Harry away but Bill got his hands on him and sent them packing. Harry had been dreading this, but if Lichfield and the goblins were going to be publicly calling Dumbledore a thief then the least he could do was stand up to Bill. He didn't even let the older boy get all the way through his first question before telling him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to know anything then he could ask Barchoke and Lichfield themselves.

Bill grinned and said that the goblins must have rubbed off on him. Harry didn't know what to say to that but did try to make it up to him by politely asking if the mad old shoemaker in Diagon Alley had made his wonderful boots; turns out that he had, so at least they could swap stories on that.

"I heard what happened with Ginny after you arrived," Bill said, nervously fiddling with his ponytail as if to make sure it was still attached after how much his mother had complained about it during dinner. "You'll have to forgive her. Being the only girl in a house full of guys hasn't been easy for her. The only friend she's ever had outside the Burrow was a girl named Luna, and Mum put a stop to that a few years back."

"Why'd she do that?" Harry asked.

"You haven't seen how Mum can get," Bill said with a shake of his head. "Don't get me wrong, she's a great Mum, she just mothers you too much sometimes and doesn't know when to stop. That's how Charlie and I wound up on other side of the continent," Bill chuckled. "Charlie's said that _dragons_ are easier to deal with than Mum. Anyway, Mum took exception to Mrs. Lovegood working from home and tried to tell her how to raise her daughter."

Harry winced.

"Yeah, that pretty much spelled the end of that," Bill explained. "Ever since then most of Ginny's friends have been in books."

"That's not such a bad thing," Harry said, thoughts turning back to Hermione. Her friendship with books had come in quite handy a number of times.

"That depends on what the books are about," Bill said meaningfully.

Harry had no idea what he meant by that, let alone what to _say_ to that.

"Well," Bill said, eyeing the stairs as he edged towards the door. "I'd better get out of here before Mum comes back down sees me still here. I wouldn't put it past her to lock me in my room. You may be sleeping there tonight," he said with a grin, "-but in her mind you're just borrowing it."

Harry walked him to the door; as long as he didn't try to treat him like a little kid, Bill was actually a pretty nice guy.

"'Til next time, Harry. Enjoy the room," Bill extended his hand to shake Harry's.

"I'll try not to let the twins blow it up," he replied, accepting the handshake.

Bill left with a grin and a wink, and a strange _pop_ as soon as the door was closed. Harry looked back outside but he was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if this was that _Apparition_ thing the old man on the bus talked about. _'Even if it's worse than the Knight Bus_,' Harry thought, _'-at least it's quicker_.'

Harry heard quick footfalls on the stairs.

"Honestly, Ginny, I don't know what you were thinking," an exasperated Mrs. Weasley said from the next room.

"Mum!" the girl cried quietly.

Harry quickly ducked out of sight in the kitchen and prayed that they stayed in the living room lest he embarrass the girl even further and she faint again.

"Oh, please, you heard them. They're all upstairs," Mrs. Weasley huffed. "But really, bride price, marriage contracts – you hadn't even seen the boy before."

"I'd seen him–," Ginny said stubbornly.

"What, twice? And for all of a second? Plus, you're ten years old," the girl's mother reminded her.

"Eleven, in ten days," she said grumpily.

Mrs. Weasley sighed.

"I've told you before; these books are much too old for you," she said as Harry inched closer. "They're nothing but romantic twaddle. Nothing like that's happened for hundreds of years! I thought I saw an end of this when I stopped you seeing that Lovegood girl."

"Luna didn't like them," Ginny sulked. "She called them silly."

"Leave it to Loony Lovegood to be the one of you with sense."

"She wasn't loony," the girl said angrily.

"No, you're right, you are," her mother countered. "Next you'll run up and kiss him claiming true love and soul bonds. Tell me, have you named your _children_ yet?"

_"Everyone _knows what Harry's children will be named," the girl pouted. "James and Lily, after his parents."

_'That – that actually wasn't a bad idea_,' Harry thought to himself. _'Incredibly _creepy_ that the entire wizarding world came up with this ten years ago, but still not a bad idea_.'

"His kids will be named whatever the real Harry wants them to be named," Mrs. Weasley said. "One could be named Albus for all we know!"

_'Not bloody likely_,' Harry thought sourly.

"If you want to see real love, just look at me and your father. You think _we_ got together because of a contract?"

"They – Well – They're magically binding, so you might not be able to say even if you had."

"Absolute rubbish. And Binding? What, pray tell, happens should you break it then, hm?" her mother asked, taking the girl's fantasy to its ridiculous end.

"Well, you either die or lose your magic," the girl explained.

"And don't you see how silly that is? You can't lose magic any more than you can give it away," Mrs. Weasley explained. "And if people died just from breaking their word, they'd be dropping left and right and no one would be signing anything at all."

Harry saw how she was right. If something that dire happened just from changing your mind or breaking your word, to say nothing of having something bad happen where you couldn't fulfill your side of a deal no matter what you did, then no agreements could ever be reached, much less signed. Gringotts would have to shut its doors and magical society would just collapse.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, I really am, but it's past time for the books to go. You'll be going to Hogwarts this year, I can't have you dragging all that 'Boy-Who-Lived' nonsense up there with you."

"Wait – I – It's just – I'll miss my Harry," the girl said sadly.

Mrs. Weasley sighed and he heard a heavy thump of something being placed on the coffee table.

"I know you'll miss him, but that Harry never existed, except in your head. Don't you see the opportunity you have here? The real Harry is right upstairs. He'll be staying with us all month and you'll be at Hogwarts together for six years. You may have been embarrassed today but he never even mentioned it and probably didn't even notice. The least you can do is say 'hi' to the boy. Who knows? You might even be friends."

Harry wondered how he could not have noticed how embarrassed the girl had been all day but saw what Mrs. Weasley was trying to do. It still didn't seem right to him, having another girl try to cozy up to him when there's already one who put herself forward. It just wasn't right and he certainly didn't want to feel like he was stringing one along.

"How _can_ I be friends with him?" Ginny asked. "He'll kill him, I _know_ he will."

_'Kill him?'_ he thought.

"Kill him? Who'll kill him? Ginny, what are you talking about?" her mother asked.

"That Harry. He'll kill him, he'll kill my Harry," the girl explained. "That's the one I want – not this one."

"And that's the one that no one can ever have," Mrs. Weasley said. "Your Harry, if he were here, and if he ever loved you the way you loved him, he'd tell you that. He wouldn't want you to waste away, waiting for something that can never happen. You can't live your life in your head, dear. He'd want you to move on, to live your life and make some real friends. If it takes that nice young boy upstairs killing the 'Boy-Who-Lived' to do it, then that's a good thing in my book."

Harry was reminded forcefully of what Dumbledore had said to him in front of the Mirror of Erised last year. He didn't know if it made him hate the old man less for having one genuine moment with him, suspicious that he was only there to pass him a tidbit of information to use against Voldemort later on, or hate the old man even more for not having ten whole years' worth of those kinds of moments to go along with that one.

_'Probably a bit of all three,'_ Harry thought.

Mrs. Weasley sighed again.

"The books can stay here for tonight," Mrs. Weasley said. "–_Only_ for tonight, so you can say _goodbye_ to them. They will be gone in the morning, even if I have to turn the _entire house_ inside out to find them."

"You won't have to," Ginny said morosely.

"I'm truly sorry, dear," the girl's mother said, sounding like she genuinely meant it. "It's always hard saying goodbye, but you'll see that it's for the best. It's time to say goodbye to Make Believe."

Harry heard Mrs. Weasley gave her daughter a kiss and go back upstairs, leaving her daughter alone. Harry quickly looked around, trying to come up with some way to make it seem like he hadn't been listening the entire time so that he could make it up to his room without absolutely mortifying the poor girl.

_'Maybe if I opened and closed the door to make it seem like I had just come inside?'_ he thought.

_'And what would we say we'd been doing?'_ another part of Harry asked himself in turn. _'Looking up at the stars? That's not the kind of image we want that girl to have at the moment_.'

Just as he had decided to go with _'helping Mr. Weasley with the washing machine'_ as his excuse it was taken away from him when he heard the girl say, "It's just a stupid book for a stupid little girl," before seeing the offending object sail through the kitchen, land, bounce, and slide across the floor to the door.

Harry sighed and reached out to see for himself what all this commotion was about. What he saw was rather unnerving.

_'Oh_,' Harry thought gazing at the title._ 'So _this_ was what Bill was talking about.'_

_'The Future Adventures of Harry Potter:' _the title read._ 'The Boy-Who-Lived and the Chamber of Doom_.'

Harry stared dumbfounded at the book in his hands. He had put together that the books in question had been about him but this made him sound like Indiana Jones. _'Might as well wear a fedora and carry a bull whip.'_ He shook his head to clear that image from his mind. _'Certainly not the image _anyone_ needs at the moment.'_

If anything, the cover art was worse. He looked much too old to be himself. In fact, he didn't look anything like himself, apart from the black hair and lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. For some reason they seemed to think he'd wander around dark chambers full of vicious clawed beasts with horns and a tail while his shirt was undone, cradling some red-headed girl in his arms, and lifting a sword triumphantly.

_'I could only hope to look this muscular when I get that old,_' Harry thought to himself._ 'Whoever this author, Ida Beeman, is they need to get their head examined.'_

Harry stood to go upstairs, the quick squeak from the couch telling him that he had forgotten about the girl in the next room. His eyes darted towards her just in time to see her dive to hide her face in the couch again. This time though she didn't stop, in a flash the couch had swallowed her up as if she had never been there.

"Er – Hello?" Harry asked. "Are you still there?"

He went to look behind the couch for the missing girl only to find that she was nowhere to be seen.

With a stifled grunt the couch shuddered.

"Hello?" he asked again, poking the couch.

The couch shuddered again and there was more sounds of a struggle.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked.

Finally the couch gave a diminutive sigh.

"Could you get my Mum?" the girl's muffled voice asked. "I think I'm stuck."

"How'd you get in there?" he asked as amusement warred with mild concern.

"I don't know. It's never happened before," the girl said quietly.

"Do you think the couch was just incredibly hungry?" Harry asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I don't know." The poor girl sounded like she wanted to cry.

_'Okay, that isn't helping,'_ Harry thought to himself.

"If I help you get out, are you going to faint again?" he asked.

"No," the girl said mournfully.

"Are you going to run off to your room?"

There was a pause.

"Maybe," Ginny answered.

_'Well, at least she's honest_,' Harry thought.

"Okay, hang on," he said as he tried to think of something to do. If he went and got her mother the girl would be mortified, and if her brothers found out there'd be no living it down. He couldn't even use magic to do it without the risk of everyone finding out about it afterwards.

Harry set the book down and checked the cushions to find that they came off quite easily. Directly beneath them was the youngest Weasley, lying in a small unnatural dent and pinned in place by one of the couch supports.

"I think we can get you out," Harry said after a moment. "Give me your hands, I'll pull you towards this end and we can see if you can wiggle your way out."

Either the girl was held at an odd angle which made things slow going or the couch was putting up more of a struggle for its meal than he had been expecting. It took some doing but after a couple of minutes the girl was free from the couch. As soon as her feet left the dent the couch popped back out into place with a groan of springs.

"Thanks," Ginny said.

"Don't mention it," he replied. Harry looked down at the books still on the coffee table and picked up a couple. "Do you mind if I borrow these?" he asked.

Ginny tensed for a moment. "No," she said. "You can have them."

"Thanks," Harry said as he turned to go.

"Just–" the girl started. "Can we not mention the couch to anyone?" she asked.

"As long as you don't tell the guys I have these," Harry smiled, hefting the peculiar books.

Ginny nodded.

Harry made his way back up to his room. This had definitely been the strangest day of his life.

.o0O0o.

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world wound his way down the quaint village street in the afternoon's failing light towards the warm glow and lively sounds of the village's most comforting inn. It had become a kind of tradition for him, these quiet little jaunts down from his proverbial ivory tower at Hogwarts, and Albus found that he quite enjoyed his monthly visits. They reminded him of what it was all for.

He crossed the threshold of the Three Broomsticks, quickly making way for some of the more spritely village youngsters dashing about on their way home before sunset after one last butterbeer. Albus chuckled to himself as he made his way to his usual booth. He did so love youths; all of the unrestrained energy and the promise of life's great adventures ahead of them filled him with hope. The rosy tavern keeper, Madam Rosmerta, made her way over just as he was settling into his seat.

"As regular as clockwork. How are you, Albus?" Rosmerta asked warmly as she hugged him to her overly large breasts.

"I'm fine, just fine," he said jovially, straightening his half-moon spectacles on his twice-broken nose and set his hat back in its proper place. Oh, how he loved these genuine displays of affection he got from his few regular acquaintances; they made him feel young.

"–Ready to begin a new year," he smiled as he continued. "Now all we need are students. I believe you have something for me?" Albus prompted. He always had his monthly statements mailed here for him to review surrounded by the bustle and life of the tavern. These people were the lifeblood of the wizarding world, and Hogwarts its heart, it only made sense to do what he did here in the warm glow of all that life while its heart had grown temporarily cold.

"Oh, not today, I don't," Rosmerta said, wiping an imaginary spot on the table. "I'm sorry," she said sympathetically. "It looks like your lady friend's forgotten you this time," she said with a twinkle in her eye. She had tried setting him up with some of the older witches and wizards of the village a number of times before in the last decade, but he had always been more inclined towards his work than in meeting any new friends, let alone anyone special.

"Alas," Albus said. "The closest thing I've had to a lady friend in that regard has been you, since you always leave me wanting more. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to find me something to nibble on while I'm here?

Rosmerta laughed and flicked her rag at him.

"Oh, you old flirt," she smiled. "It's a pity you've never found yourself someone special to settle down with," she said sadly.

"Ah," Albus said. "Finding one and doing so are two very different things."

"I'll go see what I can come up with," she said as she patted his hand comfortingly before walking away.

Albus did hope it was food that she brought and not another older gentleman.

.o0O0o.

It was quite some time later that the lonely old man made his way back up the hard-packed dirt lane towards the grounds of Hogwarts. No mail had come for poor Albus, nobody wanted him, and nobody thought him important; it made him feel sad. Even the patrons in the bar, long accustomed to his monthly working visits, had paid him no mind and didn't even notice as he gazed longingly at them as if looking for some way to join their conversation.

He sighed despondently as he looked up at the castle through the wrought iron gates, only a tiny few pin-pricks of light in a multitude of windows. Albus wondered what would happen to it once he was gone.

_'There was still time_,' he thought to himself. _'There's still time_.'

A cold and mournful wind blew across the grounds as Albus walked to the castle. In other times, on other nights, that breeze might've seemed a brisk and cool breeze, but not tonight, not for Albus.

He looked over to the great misshapen lump of Hagrid's hut and a small smile crept onto his face as he thought that it looked very much like a slumbering giant, so much like the gentle giant that tottered about within. Albus reminded himself to try to be more like the kindly gamekeeper. A pure and simple soul was so much more in tune with the Greater Good than one whose mind and heart was fixed on the mournfully mundane.

The entryway was dark when he arrived at the school, only one door unlocked and none open. The Great Hall stood empty, silent, its tables devoid of golden plates and shining silverware, its enchanted ceiling showing only darkness. Only one torch in three was lit as Albus made his way to his office and he wondered how long they would last.

It was on this somber scene that he saw one of his few moderately good work friends appear.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall," Albus said with a smile he didn't feel. "I see you have returned, and a few days early. Just as eager as I to get another year underway?"

"Sadly, no," the Scottish woman rained on Albus's parade. "I just got the statements for the Operational Fund and they're far less than the projections you gave me last year. I came in to see what could have caused it."

"Nothing amiss, I trust?" the kindly old man asked.

"Something's definitely amiss, alright," Minerva said tersely. "Hogwarts is in dire straits. The Fund is lower than it's been in over a decade and I'm at a loss as to how to explain it. Did the Governors say anything about cutting our budget?"

"Not any more than they've said in previous years," Albus said. "I wouldn't worry, things will work themselves out."

"Things had better 'work themselves out' soon," she said, tugging fitfully at her tartan robes. "–Or we may have to end the Hopefuls program entirely and you'll have to hit the Beggar's Circuit again."

"I do so dislike that phrase," Albus tutted. "They are valued alumni, generously donating to their old school."

"Whatever they are, you'll need to see them with your hat in your hand asking for money if you want to keep the doors open for long."

"Oh," Albus said, once more regaining his jovial mood now that someone needed his reassurances. "I don't think things are quite as dark as all that. I didn't get my statements at all today. This may well be some sort of mistake or delay in processing. I wouldn't worry about it. There's still a week before the mailings go out, by then we may look back and think how alarmist we're being now. There's still plenty of time."

"I hope so, Albus," the Scottish woman said. "I really do. I'd so hate to have to go back on our word. Those would be three very dispirited children to have to hear that they'll never be going to Hogwarts."

"Rest assured, Minerva," Albus said knowingly. "By the time I return from this month's I.C.W. meeting, I'm certain the problem will be solved. I wish I could stay to make sure things were fine here but-."

"-There are too many opportunities to do good there," she finished for him. "You're a saint, Albus."

"Oh, no," he smiled. "But I do try."

.o0O0o.

Lichfield looked spitefully at the tiny car. His blasted neighbor always did this to him; it's what comes from living above reckless youths who thought of no one but themselves. He tapped the oddly shaped metal thing with his wand, causing it to roll back several feet. Finally able to get to the old wooden stoop that served as the entryway to his part of the building, Lichfield made his way inside.

Though most would classify being inside the building as being 'inside,' he was still no closer to his apartment. He flicked on the lights to reveal that the room was nothing more than a steep stairway. Lester felt like he had lived every year he had twice over again as he hauled his aching bones up that blasted staircase and through the door into the apartment proper.

A pattering of tiny feet came running from the kitchen as the warlock made to set his briefcase down.

"Mister Lichy is ever so late," the young house-elf said as she whisked the briefcase away.

Lichfield grunted. It had been a long day. First Gropegold, then Cadogan and the Knight Bus, then tracking down that foul Trunchbull woman, though he did get no end of enjoyment seeing the havoc those children had caused her, even adding a few choice bits himself.

Lester removed his outer robe.

"Mipsy didn't know what Mister Lichy would want to eat," Mipsy said as she whisked his outer robe away.

The robe took its place on its hook, within arm's length in front of him. He could just as well look after himself but as much as she pained him, he never could bring himself to send little Mipsy away. The girl deserved better than to wallow in a freedom she didn't want just as she deserved better than him. She deserved to be with a large family who could give her all the work she was worth instead of having to make due with him.

He groaned as he settled into the apartment's one small chair and started untying his shoes.

"Would Mister Lichy like the eggs?" Mipsy asked as she whisked away the right shoe.

"–Or maybe the soup?" she asked as she whisked away the left shoe.

"Perhaps just the meal of toast?" she asked as she walked away with the right sock held well away from her long nose.

"–Or maybe just the juice?" Mipsy pinched her nose as the left sock was carried away.

Lester sighed.

"Toast will do," he said.

"With the jam?" she asked.

"With the jam," he nodded.

He was a creature of simple habits. Simple habits made by long years of being alone, of having nothing worth living for, of having nothing to take enjoyment from. His meals were simple ones, eggs the way he liked them, a simple soup his mother used to make, or a bit of toast or some juice if he were in a hurry or not particularly hungry. It was so much less than the little elf deserved so he tried to make it up to her by making the portions small and having her cook each serving separately. It gave her more to do to occupy her time and give her the need she needed. He did the same with his clothes.

Not for the first time he considered actually freeing her, letting her go off to find someone capable of giving her all the work she was worth, but freeing an elf would more likely end up with the little one dead from wallowing in misery than anything else. So few survived being away from those they felt truly needed them, it was only by being attached to families, where they could be passed from one generation to another, that they gained the most protection from that, though even Charlus and Dorea's elves didn't survive them long. It was simply too much grief to bear.

If what the boy had said was _true_ though, if that Dobby had come to him, if he had served him the way the boy claims he had, if he truly held no love for those who owned him now, then there was a very good chance that little guy will live. Lester shook his head, he had to stop thinking about them like they were human; that was half the problem he had with Mipsy.

Mipsy quickly reappeared with a bit of toast and jam on a small plate.

"Mister Lichy need anything else? Draw the bath? Brush the hair? Brush the teeth? Warm the bed?" Mipsy asked in the rapid-fire way she had when she was desperately looking for something else to do.

"Just warming the bed will be fine," Lester said, eating his tiny meal in a few quick bites. His small attic apartment was always drafty, his bedroom always cold. "You can individually wash and fold my socks, if you like, when you're done."

"Washed them twice today already, Mister Lichy, sir," Mipsy said happily.

"Well, third time's the charm, you know."

Mipsy smiled and nodded happily. Her dark hair and eyes making her seem all the more like the small daughter he'd never have. He waved her away to get started on what passed for work in this house as he settled into an even deeper gloom. Lester hated when his thoughts became tangled in the past. The past was nothing but a continuous stream of heartbreak and despair that there was no escape from.

Unbidden, his eyes sought out the things that haunted him most. A large class picture from his Hogwarts days, made for all the Seventh Years as they used to do back then. So many friends, so confident, so daring, so eager to shake the world to its foundations and bold enough to hold back the sands of Time itself to accomplish their aims. So many friends dead, their confidence shattered, their eager daring and boldness broken as the world crumbled around them and Time itself wasted them away too soon.

Charlus was there with his arm around him, inseparable as they were, and Dorea stood stately at her would-be husband's side, her cool demeanor and haughty vanity on full display. The vanity that would doom her and Charlus both because the poor fool had loved her so. To trade away half your life, just to spend a few more years with the woman you loved when you had a young son who needed you, Lester would have thought him mad if he hadn't already lost someone himself. She wasn't pictured though, she had been so distressed that she'd miss the photo, having been confined to the hospital wing with a bout of dragon pox.

Lester set the picture face-down so he wouldn't have to see the smiling array of future corpses any longer and his eyes were drawn to the picture that reminded him of the most joy he had ever felt. They were so young when it was taken, and yet it so near the end, though they had no way of knowing. Smiling and happy and sitting in the large bay window of their very own home, a gift built by Charlus when Lester had married his sweetheart. He wanted them close, he had said, so he had built it on his land. He wanted them happy, so he had built them what they wanted, and in this picture they were. So young, so in love, and so soon to be parents - until it had all gone so horribly wrong.

It was with trembling hands that this picture joined the first, and with trembling hands he grasped the fiendish bit of twisted brass and glass that had stripped everything away from him. Bits of sand threatened to escape through his fingers as the sharp edges of the thrice-damned device bore into his palms. With a silent rage for all the years that should have been lived by so many, the man they call Lichfield flung that diabolical device as hard as he could, not caring where it landed. It would make its way back to its proper place, just as the pictures would right themselves. There was only so much work for the little elf to do.

He stalked into the tiny bathroom to splash himself with water and try to calm himself down. Rage and distress caused problems when your body was as withered as his was, and he couldn't die just yet. Lichfield sighed as he toweled himself dry. He knew what had gotten him into this funk. It wasn't the boy, it wasn't all the references to Charlus, it was the Trace.

They had stood in line together, he and the girl, the day the Ministry man came to Hogwarts to give them a 'standard health screening.' A health screening so good at its job that they had never done it before or since. It was only later, once _he_ had joined the Ministry, that he had learned what that really was. What a day that turned out to be. Asked out the girl he fancied, she had said yes, and then they spent the rest of the day grinning like idiots while waiting in line so they could be tagged and tracked by the government.

To this day, nearly forty years later, he still sometimes saw her in his dreams the way she was then; her shy smile, her dark hair and dark eyes were always mesmerizing. If he couldn't even look at Mipsy without seeing the ghost of the child they never had staring back at him he knew that tonight would be one of those nights. She had nothing to do with the Potters, even less with their boy's young boy, yet he had raised her up out of her grave as surely as he was one of the Three Brothers himself. And all he did was mention the Trace.

_'And the land_,' Lichfield thought. _'Returning the people Gropegold had run off the land_.' A noble idea, and one Charlus would've supported, but what was left on the land for him? An old house that was home to more memories and more ghosts than the boy could ever conjure with the Stone itself and a pair of old graves - one filled, one still waiting.

_'That's the only reason I have to return to the land_,' Lichfield thought. He'd have to tell Barchoke about it, for when the time came. He only hoped there was time enough left in him. He was so much older than his sixty two years. He looked and felt almost twice that. There had to be time. Time for one last service for the Potters, for Charlus. She would have to wait a little while longer. The boy had to reach thirteen.

_'Eyes ahead_,' Lester reminded himself, _'not behind_.' He was no longer a kid, and 'as dumb as a door' no longer, or so he hoped. He had the thing to do, and he was going to do it, and he was going to do it right.

The boy. The house. The secrecy, and the Secrecy. What was it that Barchoke had said? The depth of secrecy he hadn't seen since You-Know-Who. With the old man planning things out, with him being as intelligent as he was supposed to be, he'd want to have someone stationed near that house, just to keep an eye on things. A witch or wizard's out because the old man wouldn't want their magic to alert the Ministry. But how to do it without breaking Secrecy though?

Lester knew what he would do if it were him. He'd get a squib. Most children of magical families left the magical world behind once they know there's nothing there for them. They could never inherit and most were disowned when it became obvious. Most feel like they never truly belong, being unable to do magic themselves. Some squibs though, some cling to the periphery of the magical world, coming up with some way to still remain a part of the world that has no place for them. Owl keepers, farmers, animal breeders, there are loads of jobs that wizards would never even think to do that squibs would suddenly find useful to make money from.

_'He might be using one of those_,' Lester thought._ 'If nothing came up in the dealings of the Potter account I'll have to make sure and check the records for any businesses registered in this Little Whinging for anything near this Privet Drive_.' Once Dumbledore showed himself at Gringotts, he'd be free to go after his eyes and ears, he'll squeeze them until they popped, _then_ he'd have everything he needed to drag the old man's name into the mud where it belonged.

Dumbledore might've been a great man once, and one of his favorite teachers, but he had one last service to do. For Charlus.

.o0O0o.

Barchoke stopped what he was doing as his mind went back to review this monumental day. That snow white owl had turned his reasonably comfortable world on its head and set him on a collision course with some of the most powerful people in the country; but he wasn't afraid. He had Lichfield, and he had the boy, and he had the chance for the revenge he had shaven his head to swear to more than a decade ago when his enemy had been nothing more than some theoretical someone.

Now he had a name for the one who wronged him: Dumbledore.

He looked over at his father and he knew what had happened all those years ago. It wasn't the loss of the Potter family and all the work he'd spent his life dedicated to that had warped Hammerhand's mind, it was magic. Long ago Lichfield had suggested that a simple Confundus charm could've done this much damage, if performed by someone who didn't know any better.

A goblin's mind was built for gain, obsessed with it, it couldn't be made to confuse loss with gain of any kind. It simply couldn't be done. The goblin mind would rebel. When it happened during an attack though, the goblin mind would remember. A goblin always remembers those who've wronged them, those who've taken from them, those who've made them lose. They remembered, and they couldn't stop remembering.

His eyes swept the room his father had been confined to. Snakes, very crafty and deadly creatures to those who live underground. Snakes with long white beards could prove all the more so, but Barchoke would be ready. He might not be a warrior of old but he had other weapons with which to seek his revenge if Lester's theory proved true.

Neither of them had the funds to afford the type of mental healing Hammerhand required, and the isolated goblins of Britain had no skill in it. When it was simple grief, Gringotts Bank had written him off as a bad investment and refused to pay for it. If it had been an attack though. An attack meant a victim, and a victim means damages. Damages meant money to be gained, money that included every knut spent housing Hammerhand for eleven long years, every knut spent making him well again too. If it were an attack, then victim could become witness.

Hammerhand's heavy hand landed on his desk with a _bang_.

"You have to help me, Barchoke," the old goblin said tersely. "Stop dawdling or we'll never get this audit done for Charlus. He doesn't have much time left, you know."

"Not to worry, sir," Barchoke said. "We'll work through the night if we have to. We'll get it done."

Hammerhand nodded and went back to his drawing as Barchoke returned to his. It wasn't an old stag, mournfully drawn, like the one he had drawn yesterday had been, this one was a young stag full of pride. This would be his weapon of choice. His father might be partial to his portraits of snakes with beards, but to Barchoke, it always came back to stags.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Well, I bet you never thought you'd see Ginny and Molly like that did you, let alone Albus?

Thanks for reading.


	8. The Chocolate Bar Rebellion

**AN:** Thanks to Imraphel for Brit–picking the chocolate choices and I swear I make no money from product placement and lament the fact that I haven't been able to taste test them myself to give a more realistic description. Just so everyone knows, no this isn't a crack fic; it just has humor in it. Now on to what you're all interested in: a chapter all about the character I've been teasing since Chapter 2.

.o0O0o.

Hermione closed her eyes and savored the rich flavor as the dark chocolate of her Bournville bar melted in her mouth. She sectioned off each square for private consumption. Each silky square was a victory against her mother's decade long anti–sugar regime. Hermione's was a guerrilla campaign. The fact that this little victory was gained while the feathered version of her mother sat staring down at her from the tree across the way made it taste all the more delicious.

Imogen cried her call at her, as if the owl saw her blatant rule–breaking and disapproved. Hermione opened her eyes as if surprised to hear anything at all and cupped a hand around her ear as if straining to hear the bird. Imogen cried again.

_'__What was that?'_ the bushy–haired brunette seemed to say as she did the motion again. _'I can't quite hear_.'

The owl flew away, back to its usual spot on the other side of the house.

"Another victory," Hermione said as she snapped off another dark square and popped it in her mouth after swallowing the first. She smiled and went back to studying the old textbook in front of her.

Momentum might be on her side today but things had not always gone so smoothly. In fact, it almost didn't happen at all. It was on their way home from King's Cross Station that the fires of war had been lit. On their way north and east, her father stopped to refuel at a gas station near Newmarket. Minnie the mini mint Mini Mark III was a hungry machine, one that was older than she was, and her father loved coincidences. His dental practice was on Newmarket Road, so of course they had to stop when the turnoff said Newmarket. The fact they were closer to Exning than Newmarket fell on deaf ears, as did the fact that the two Newmarkets were on the same road, only 50 miles apart and therefore likely not a coincidence at all.

She had followed her father inside, more to be away from her mother – who stayed in the car – than to stretch her legs. Maybe it was the fact that there was an entire other world out there that seemed to run counter to the way her mother operated, or perhaps it was simply the fact that she had friends there, but ever since Hermione had stepped off the Hogwarts Express everything about the woman had been grating on her.

Cold, emotionless, and overly–logical, that was Dr. Puckle. She might be one of the best oral and maxillofacial surgeons in the country but her interpersonal skills left much to be desired. Her father had once said that her mother simply wasn't programmed for human interaction, a manufacturer's mistake and that if only he could find her manual…

Her mother had never wanted kids, she knew that. She had heard her say it when she was little. But it wasn't as if Hermione hadn't tried, for years she had pushed herself: constantly studying, constantly revising, constantly drilling, trying to be the very image of her mother, desperately seeking some sign that she approved. There was always some criticism though: she had been too slow with her calculation, had delayed unnecessarily by asking for the word's etymology when it was obvious, she could have finished the game two moves faster had she really wanted to win.

"Curly Wurly?" her father asked, dragging her from her thoughts. Safely hidden from the car's view in the convenience store's candy aisle the man was finally free to indulge his sweet tooth. "It's chocolate–coated caramel goodness. You used to love them," he finished in a sing–song voice as he wagged the candy bar back and forth.

If four–out–of–five dentists recommended something, Dan Granger would say the exact opposite; then laughingly jest that he'd have all the more teeth to clean when his patients made their next appointments. This strange outlook on life, coupled with a pair of overly expressive eyes and a head of hair that could only be called a small coiffed bush, led her to believe he was much more of a child's cartoon than a dentist. How he ended up married to her mother she'd never know but suspected there was some sort of contract negotiation or robotic testing involved.

"You're silly, Dad," she said as she took the candy bar away from him as if she were the parent and he were the child. After all, she had been five the last time she had eaten a Curly Wurly. He shrugged and went to the cashier to pay for his chips, drink, and the candy bar that the lanky man would pocket before ever getting in sight of the car.

She had fully intended to put the candy bar _back_ on the shelf when it happened, a quick clear _Beep!_ from Minnie's horn. Her mother had summoned; they had taken too long. She grabbed something from the shelf and walked decisively up to the cashier next to her father.

"Is that all for you?" the cashier asked, ringing up the purchases.

"These too," Hermione said, adding _two_ Curly Wurlies to the small pile.

The cashier looked to her father before continuing.

"That'll do us," her father said with a smile and handed over the money to pay the bill. "That's my Granger–girl," he said with a supportive arm around her as he pocketed his candy. "Don't tell your mother."

On its way from her shoulder her father's hand strayed towards her chocolate. She playfully smacked it. "Hands off my Curly Wurly!" she said, reciting the candy's old slogan.

With that little act of defiance near Newmarket, the Chocolate Bar Rebellion had begun.

It was almost an hour later, behind the closed door of her room, that Hermione had finally eaten the serpentine chocolate lattice. Slightly melted from being held in her pocket the rest of the way home, it nonetheless tasted illicitly good. The multicolored wrapper she saved for later use and that night she snuck out to the kitchen and stuck it to the fridge door with a magnet like some modern day Martin Luther.

The next wrapper appeared on the kitchen counter the next afternoon. The purple packaging of a Dairy Milk bar appeared inside the fridge itself after that – propped up against her mother's skim milk like it belonged there. She had tried to appear engrossed in her pleas to McGonagall and Flitwick while her mother looked at her calculatingly.

Her father had thought that one was clever, later saying that she was a lot braver than he was. He had no problem at all though in handing over a few pounds every once in a while so that she could continue her campaign, as long as he was provided with a large share of the chocolate. Apparently a bit of chocolate once in a while was fine but he didn't want her to think he was okay with her banging her teeth out with a hammer as soon as she got home from school. Hermione didn't mind, she wasn't doing it for chocolate, she was doing it to send a message. She was never going to be her mother.

As the days passed something else had started to wear on her, other than her mother's decided lack of response. She had heard nothing from Ron. Hermione knew that she shouldn't have asked him to find out what Harry had thought of her, especially after what Ron had said earlier, but had cowardly thought she had no other option but to get him to ask. Of course she had another option; she could have just talked to Harry and handled the whole thing herself. She just hadn't thought she could deal with that kind of rejection and the risk of losing her best friend was too great for anything less than the absolute surety of a positive response.

Her father finally pulled her aside after Ron's letter came telling her that nothing but silence was coming from his letter to Harry and she had looked like she really needed to talk. Once she assured him that the feather duster that was Ron's owl was still alive and that that wasn't her problem, she started to tell her story. She didn't name names, and only said things in the most roundabout way – her father didn't need to know just how dangerous the wizarding world could be – but it didn't take a genius to figure out what the whole issue was about. It was about a boy; a boy she liked, a boy she liked who was also her friend.

Unlike her mother, her father was always one to listen. And unlike her mother, who could only criticize and tear down, her father like to explore. There were no tutting that she was too young for this kind of thing or that she should be concentrating on her schoolwork. Instead, he asked equally roundabout questions about the boy in question. Nothing about what this boy's name was or what their parents were like, instead he asked about the boy himself. What was he like? What did he like? What was his background like? What did they have in common? And just as importantly, what did they have that were at odds? She had to admit that even after knowing him for months that she didn't really know him that well. She hinted that he was well known, even if he wasn't precisely what you'd call popular.

"Well then, I'd say that you're in a very unique position here," her father said encouragingly.

"To have my first real friendships destroyed and have to go through the rest of my life like a Puckle?" she asked, referencing her mother.

"I highly doubt that's going to happen," he said bracingly. "You're in a unique position because you're thinking about this now rather than a few years from now, and because everyone else in your year is probably oblivious to this sort of thing. Meanwhile you, my little Puckle, have your foot in the door."

"I am not a little Puckle," Hermione said stubbornly. "And what do you mean 'my foot in the door'? I feel more like I have my foot in my mouth and am just waiting for the opportunity to chew. I can't believe I admitted all that to Ron. If Ha–he hadn't been in the hospital wing at the time I never would have," she said, hoping to play it off like Harry had had some sort of Quidditch injury.

"You have your foot in the door by already being friends with this boy," her father explained. "They always say that the best couples always start off as friends. But you haven't been friends with him so long that your – how do I put this – group dynamic, has had a chance to set like dried cement. There's still a great deal of wiggle room for things to change between now and – whenever it is I finally let you date – in, like, ten years or so."

Hermione rolled her eyes but saw what he was getting at.

"If all this had only come up four or five years from now–," he said, looking like the option would've suited him better than having to talk about this now. "–Then you might be in a position where trying to pursue anything really would put your established friendship in jeopardy, or worse."

"How could it be worse than losing H– my friend?" Hermione quickly corrected herself.

"He could end up valuing the friendship you've built up over the years too much to put it at risk by changing it, or worse start thinking of you as some sort of sister," he said derisively. "If either one of those happen then you're stuck. If you stop being his friend then you look shallow, and if you stick around you'll have to watch as he starts going out with every other girl but you."

"So you're saying that I should just ask him out," Hermione said for him.

"No," her father said dramatically holding up his hands to ward off the very idea. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. And once again, no. You'll never hear a father say that his twelve year old daughter should be dating," he said aghast at the very idea, his eyes a little bugged out.

"I'm just saying that you could – get to know the boy a bit better. On a, er – a bit of a – um, a more personal level?" her father tried to uncomfortably clarify as he hunted around for the right words to say.

"I'm not saying date," he stated as he continued. "You won't ever hear me say date. Just–," he gestured with his hands as if their flapping could somehow make all other forms of communication unnecessary. "–Just talk like this. Just share with him all of this more personal stuff that you don't share with anyone else, and get him to do the same. And maybe, if you both see something there worth building on… then in ten years you could maybe possibly someday think about considering the option of going on one of those 'D'–word–things at some point down the line," he finished rather green around the gills.

Hermione could see the logic in what he said, though the 'ten years' comment was patently ridiculous. _'Third Years_ are _allowed visits to Hogsmeade_,' Hermione reminded herself. _'And Hogwarts, a History does say that it's become a traditional destination for many first dates_.' With a rudimentary plan in mind, she decided that what her father doesn't know won't hurt him, or cause him to look sick and wave his arms about hopelessly.

"And how exactly am I supposed to get him to talk?" she asked. "He's always come across as a much more private person, unless it's about Quidditch and then it's not about him at all."

"Well, you could always talk to him about that," her father said with a grin.

Hermione didn't look convinced.

"Hey, if a girl comes off as a sports fan she's liable to get snapped up pretty quick. I've seen it happen."

"Everyone there is a sports fan," Hermione explained. "They really don't have anything else to do except for a few silly games and 'pulling pranks'."

Her father didn't say anything for a while after that. It was his way of drawing out whatever else might be hiding under the surface. It used to work all the time when she was little but if he thought she'd say something just to fill the empty silence then he was sadly mistaken.

"It is exciting to watch him play," she admitted finally.

Her father smiled and poked her side. She tried not to blush, knowing that it was painfully obvious to both of them that the last word she said was only tacked on for decorum.

"If he's honestly looking for a Quidditch witch–," Hermione said, trying to regain her equilibrium, "–they're not hard to find. Half the team is female."

"And what do you think about that?" he asked with another poke.

"I know he'll have other interests besides me," Hermione said with a look. "I don't expect him to hang out in the Library all the time; he's not that much of a studier. And I know he wouldn't expect me to go to every Quidditch practice and swoon if he let me wear his old jersey," she said derisively. If someone swooned around Harry he'd be more likely to think they were sick.

"You know, you're not supposed to be this mature at twelve," her father said.

"And you're supposed to be more mature than you are at forty," Hermione countered.

"It's forty–one," he said levelly. "But I'm a guy," he said with a grin. "We're never more mature than we have to be. You'll want to remember that."

Hermione sighed and shook her head. She sincerely hoped that being more Granger didn't lead to her being such a daft dimbo like her father.

"Well then, little miss maturity," her father said as he got up and walked to her desk. "You should have no problem doing what comes next."

She watched in horror as he pulled out a clean piece of parchment and readied her quill and ink. _'Uh oh_,' Hermione thought as she briefly considered fleeing to the safety of the public library. She had to discard the idea when she found that her feet wouldn't move. This was the problem with having her father be the person she always talked to; he always made her made her deal with the real issue involved and then made her follow through with things when the solution was obvious.

She walked over with leaden feet like a convict to the electric chair.

He patted her on the head as she took her seat and left her with one last bit of advice.

"Embrace your inner Granger," her father said sagely. "Write to him and tell him all the stuff you haven't been telling me; and without planning everything out like a Puckle. I think you'll be surprised at the response."

_'__Gryffindors are supposed to be_ brave,' Hermione reminded herself. Why couldn't she have just let the Sorting Hat put her in Ravenclaw instead? _'Because you're intelligent, not flighty,_' she reminded herself as she recalled her run–in with some giggly older Ravenclaw girls while looking for Neville's toad on the train.

"Oh, and in case you forgot," her father said with only his head still poking around the door. "The boy you like is named Harry. For some reason it just keeps getting stuck on your tongue," he said with an odd look on his face. "You might want to practice saying it out loud. Toodle–oo," he left with a smile and bright popping eyes.

She'd been caught, though given the fact that she had written home naming only _two people_ as friends the deduction wasn't a hard one to make. She had tried so hard during this not to say his name only to blow it by saying Ron's. The last time she'd started to say the other out loud – well, in this context anyway – she'd jinxed the whole thing and it had been the most painfully awkward moment of her life! How were you supposed to say, _"Sorry, Ron. Thanks for saying you like me too, but it wasn't _you_ I was talking about,_" and have that not be awkward for everyone?

Hermione took the quill and started to write. She briefly panicked and thought about starting over when _'Dear Harry'_ appeared at the top; she hadn't meant to let that slip out so soon. She calmed herself by thinking that he probably wouldn't think twice about it; it was the traditional way to start a letter after all.

As she caught him up on her summer so far, keeping the Chocolate Bar Rebellion a secret lest her mother have a chance to read it before she sent it off, Hermione found herself relaxing. She had even managed to make a joke. It helped by thinking of him simply as 'my friend Harry' rather than 'Harry, that cute boy I like.' Soon enough she found herself writing about things in the same way she's always been able to talk about things with her father, with no real barrier between them.

She had caught it when father had pointed out that that part had changed. It was like he knew that there were simply things about the wizarding world she'd never be able to share with an old muggle dentist like him. It made her wonder if this was why he wanted her to do this. Even if things with Harry never went anywhere romantic and they only became really close friends, at least she'd have someone who'd be there for her in the way he always had been. For some reason that made the uncaring qualities of her mother loom even larger in her mind.

She pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on writing about the subject at hand: Harry, and what he meant to her. As she wrote it soon became blurred as what this letter really was. Was it really a letter to Harry, letting him know what she thought about him, or was it a letter from that hidden Granger part of her letting her know what she thought of Harry? She knew she liked him, she knew she admired him, but the way the words began appearing on the paper, almost without thought... She had never truly thought about how central Harry had become to her. It was almost scary when she thought about it. No wonder she didn't tell him herself, she'd probably come across as some star–struck fan girl.

_'__No_,' she thought, _'Harry would never think of me like that. We're friends_.'

Finally she got to the end and looked at what she wrote.

_'__Curse that inner Granger,_' she thought. It had admitted the one thing she hadn't even been willing to admit to herself: even if things between them never went the way she wanted, there was no way around it, she would always be his. Whether that is as best friends, significant others, or – she blushed – anything more, was entirely up to him now.

Hermione plucked up what Gryffindor courage she still had left and tied the letter to Errol's feet with trembling hands before she could change her mind. There was no way she was going to trust Imogen with this. As the owl flew away it felt like it was carrying off some piece of herself. She drew a calming breath and tried to relax. Everything was going to be alright. It was. It _was_. The troops momentarily heartened, she started planning what targets her Bon Bon Brigade would hit next.

.o0O0o.

The campaign was in chaos, the troops in shambles, and their commander was grievously wounded and had fled the field in full retreat. The enemy didn't even have to fire a shot; hers was a self–inflicted wound. Hermione lay in bed, curled around her faithful copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ and wishing she were there now. Any normal day, even one with the threat of You–Know–Who barreling into the common room and murdering the lot of them, would be infinitely better than being where she was now.

How could she have been so stupid as to send that letter? Write it, read it, decide it was too personal to actually send, **burn it, **and then write a second letter that was less _'Oh–my–God,–Harry,–you've–got–to–marry–me–now–or–I'll–__**die**_.' Was that so hard? Was that too much to ask?

And what did she get from following her father's advice? Silence, more than two whole weeks of silence. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Harry had read the letter and had rightfully freaked. Ron still denied hearing anything from Harry but if he had heard something he wasn't likely to tell her anyway. She was just the clingy want–to–be fan girl for "Harry Potter" after all, not the legitimate friend who only wanted–

She sighed. She didn't know what she wanted any more. If she was honest with herself, as she'd been raised to be, Hermione knew that she did know. She wanted the whole thing reversed like it had never happened so that everything would go back to the way they were before she had royally messed them up. How was she going to face them again? It was impossible that Ron didn't know everything that had been in that letter by now. He was Harry's best friend, he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and he probably had Harry over at his place right now talking about how mad she was to even think that Harry might like her back!

Hermione placed her pillow over her face and briefly considered smothering herself as the slightly scuffing sounds her father had been making all day in the attic made its way down to her. She finally had to concede that this was getting her less than nowhere. It was exactly like her candy campaign. Aside from that first calculating look her mother had never reacted, and Harry never responded. The two things were completely separate issues, yet in her mind the success of the Chocolate Bar Rebellion had melted into the issue with Harry.

How could she hope to concentrate on showing how unPuckle she was when the huge issue of Harry was still unresolved? Send another letter begging her case again? That'd just make things worse. She had to face facts. Harry was a lost cause, just like the Chocolate Bar Rebellion. Her mother didn't care, and neither did Harry. Nobody cares about a Puckle.

If Hermione hadn't been sulking she never would have heard it, this quiet brushing sound, like paper slipping off a desk or – or something sliding under the door! She lifted the pillow and craned her head to see what it was. Reinforcements had arrived, reinforcements in the guise of the garish pink packaging of a Fry's Turkish Delight. On top was a note.

_'__He doesn't define you. Viva la revolución!'_

She tore open the door and hugged her father for all she was worth, and at that moment she felt worth quite a lot. She didn't even notice how much she had needed this until she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Hermione scrubbed her eyes dry. If neither one of them wanted her then they weren't worth crying over.

"Well," her father said once she let him breathe again. "That saves me from having to slide this under there too."

He held out a thick envelope with her name on it. She recognized the handwriting.

"It's from Professor McGonagall," she said, astounded. It had been ages since she had sent off asking for something to occupy her time and prepare for next year. She hadn't expected a response after so long.

"The owl must've thought that 'window closed, curtains shut' meant no personal deliveries and that I would do in a pinch," her father said. "This one, though, is the really weird one, because it didn't get here by any owl."

He handed her a book. But it wasn't just any book; it was an old, beat–up copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2!_

"But – Then how did–?" she stammered.

_"_Magic_,_ I would guess. Isn't that the way your world works? Either way, your guess is as good as mine," her father shrugged. "I came down from checking the insulation, saw the owl, and when I turned around there was the book sitting on the counter. I guess someone wants you to have it."

"But I'm not allowed to do magic outside of school, even to practice," she told him.

"That doesn't mean you can't study up and practice everything except putting it all together in one final abracadabra," the man said with a smile.

She hugged him again.

"And what's that one for?" he asked.

"For everything."

She knew then what she had to do. It was her only way out. She had to write to Harry and tell him there were no hard feelings and that all she wanted was to be his friend. It'd hurt, but it's just the way things had to be.

.o0O0o.

Two weeks, _why_ did this have to come up _every_ _two weeks?_

_'__Because you're able to distract yourself for the first week,_' the voice in her head that sounded like her father told her. _'After that you start getting worried because you should have heard _something_ by then. At two weeks you think there's no way that a response would've taken so long so something _must've_ happened_.'

Hermione snapped the book shut. She knew studying wasn't going to be able to get her out of this one just as she knew better than to argue with her father when it came to thoughts and feelings. They had talked too often when she was younger for the echo of him still stuck in her head not to be the same way, at least when it came to her. She often thought he'd missed his calling when he'd gone into dentistry and not counselling or psychology, or even history or one the other humanities. The man just absorbed it all like a sponge.

But what could've happened to prevent anyone from hearing from Harry though?

_'__You said he wasn't much of a studier, maybe he's even less of a writer_.'

Hermione shook her head. Her father might know her but he didn't know Harry like she did. Harry would never abandon his friends; brood, perhaps, but never just disappear. If her letter to him hadn't been enough to make him respond, and that second letter hadn't been enough, then surely Ron's repeated call for him to visit for his own birthday should've had him chomping at the bit to get away from his relatives and there's no way Ron scoring that kind of coup wouldn't have resulted in a cheer that would've been clearly audible all the way from – wherever it was he lived.

_'__Maybe there's something to that relative issue_,' the mental echo of her father said.

Hermione suddenly got a deepening sense of dread. Harry had said that he disliked his relatives, he called them horrible. But everyone exaggerates when it comes to their parents. She didn't really think that her mother was a robot, no matter how apt the comparison. But what if the Dursleys really were horrible? What if they weren't just horrible but abusive? Harry could be lying with bruises from head to toe, starving, and alone and she didn't even have his telephone number to check!

_'__Calm down, Hermione, you're panicking._'

She didn't know if that had come from that echo of her father or from some self–protective Puckle part of herself. Either way she was glad it was there. There had to be something she could do to find out, or to help if she could. Telling her parents would do no good; they couldn't call every Dursley in Surrey asking if they had a Potter living with them. Did the wizarding world have something like the Child Protection System? For a society backwards enough to still use quills in the twentieth century, let alone allow a giant Cerberus to be kept in a school, Hermione had severe doubts that it had any concept of child welfare at all.

There had to be something she could do, someone else she could write to. Think, Hermione, think! Professor McGonagall? She was sure to take this seriously. Then again, she was so busy chasing down all the new students that even if she knew where Harry lived it might be another two weeks before she was able to catch up with her mail and know to check on him.

Professor Dumbledore? He was no good; he didn't even interact with the students at all except to take his meals with them. He might be the head of the school and preside over the legislature and oversee a body of international wizards but that only meant it'd take him even longer when it came to answering his mail.

A smile bloomed on her face as the solution presented itself; a solution with glinting beetle–like eyes and a big bushy beard. Hagrid! He'd be perfect. He'd pull down the _moon_ if it was for Harry, and he already knew where he lived! Harry had said that Hagrid was the one to deliver his Hogwarts letter in the first place. McGonagall must've been very busy last year for him to have been drafted, but whatever the reason was Hermione was glad for it if it helped out now.

Plan in place, she started to write.

.o0O0o.

Today was going to be a good day. Not only had she gotten Harry's 'Hello world, I'm still alive' message just the day before but this morning may have seen the tipping point for the Chocolate Bar Rebellion. Her chocolate and chocolate chip muffins had dealt a real blow to the enemy. Much to the later lament of her father, her mother hadn't simply thrown them away; she threw them away roughly and smashed them beneath other garbage.

Her mother might be more machine now than man, twisted and evil, but that little tantrum showed that there was still a bit of human left in her. It seemed that after more than a month of surprise attacks her mother's patience was wearing thin and the human inside that exoskeleton was no longer amused, not when her daily bran muffin had been shanghaied and replaced. Hermione smiled as she relived the memory. At this rate, maybe by the end of the summer she might actually get her mother to swear. She had to fight the urge to laugh lest she get her Bournville all over her book.

She began to turn the page and start the next chapter when there was movement and a soft _thump_ at her window. An owl had landed; a snow white owl. So much for Harry not being much of a writer. Hermione took a calming breath before opening the window.

"Hello, Hedwig, you have a nice flight?" she asked as she nervously untied the letter.

Hedwig gave her an affectionate nip.

_'__At least there's _one_ female in my life that's not a stranger to a little affection,_' she thought. Hermione smiled, it was a strangely calming sensation, and one she welcomed for she needed calming at the moment.

As the moment lingered and the letter was still in her hands, Hedwig looked at her as if to ask why she hadn't opened it. It was what you did with letters after all. Hermione took another calming breath. It was just a letter, she had told him to bin the other ones after all, so what was she so worried about? This one probably was only sent to tell her that he was looking forward to leaving for Ron's house in a few days and would contact her again if the Wednesday after the Hogwarts book list came out would work for them. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

_'__Hey Hermione'_ the letter started, and she let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Hey was good, hey was friendly, hey was comfortable – so why did she feel a bit sad? Did she want him to completely disregard everything she had said in the last letter only to have to face that friendship-crushing awkwardness again?

_'__Today has to be the strangest day of my life. I really wish you could've been there_,' Harry continued. Hermione couldn't imagine how anything could be stranger than giant three-headed dogs, strangulating plants, keys that attacked, and a possessed man with two faces but she couldn't deny that it felt nice to be missed.

_'__I guess the big news is that I'm away from the Dursleys and I'm never going back!'_

There was a split-second of reflected joy before what it meant caught up to her. Harry had run away?

_'__Don't worry; I'm safe and sound at the Burrow. That's Ron's place, by the way_.'

She took a calming breath.

_'__They had a bit of a party for us tonight and his older brother, Bill, gave me his old room since he moved to Egypt ages ago_.'

Hermione thought that was certainly nice of them, but what was Harry going to do, stay with _Ron_ for the rest of his life and become a Weasley? She shook away the sudden image of a Harry with ginger hair and freckles.

_'__I'd really like to tell you _why_ I won't be going back and all the big stuff I found out today, but I learned firsthand that letters by owl can be intercepted really easily and I think Lichfield would kill me if I did. He's my Litigator and was a bailiff for my grandfather_.'

_'__A bailiff?'_ Hermione thought_. 'That makes Harry sound like some sort of landed gentry_.'

_'__If this gets out before he's ready,'_ Harry continued,_ 'Lichfield says that we could get crushed in court and I'd be right back to the Dursleys_.'

She could definitely see why Harry would want to keep this close to his chest. She could only hope that he'd tell her when they saw each other next.

_'__I hope you understand; I trust you more than anyone_,' Hermione read and couldn't help but smile.

_'__And speaking of letters_-,' she read ominously as her blood began to run cold and the smile slid off her face._ 'I've got to say, I found yours much more interesting than Ron's. It's certainly not what I'd call basic stuff.'_

Hermione could only sigh in resignation as she contemplated throwing the rest of the letter away unread. Why did this have to happen today? It had been such a good day, why did he have to ruin it by doing the one thing she didn't want him to do? She really had no one to blame but herself.

_'__There may be some of the really recent stuff I can't tell you right now_,' she read curiously. _'-but I'd like to get to know you too_.'

Hermione's mind told her that this couldn't be happening.

_'__So, I guess the question now is… What do you want to know?'_

.o0O0o.

**AN:** I know I'm horrible for leaving it there, but feel free to tell me how horrible I am in a review.

That said, Hermione's mother being "Dr. Puckle" is a reference to the fact that JKR had almost had that as Hermione's last name before changing it to Granger. Of course, I decided to turn several fan fiction tropes on their heads when it came to the Grangers. The question to me wasn't: _"Why does Hermione study all the time and have no friends?"_ because that's always going to be the fanon response. Instead I asked: _"How does a young girl become the Hermione we see in _Sorcerer's Stone_?"_ Now that question demands a much more complex and deeper psychological reason that you can then use to flesh out her entire family, as well as provide the character something to rebel against as she tries to determine her own place in the world.

Thanks for reading.


	9. Hey You

**AN:** One of my biggest pet peeves is when a writer has two characters decide to get together and instantly jump to protestations of True Love and undying commitment. If any real person acted like that they'd be labeled a psycho stalker creep and shunned so why would you want your characters to do that? This is actually why I poke fun at the 'Ginny is a fan girl' cliché by showing how bad she would've been had she _actually_ been one in Canon. ;)

In order to combat this and get an accurate gauge on what Harry &amp; Hermione's fledgling relationship would be like once that initial interest is reciprocated, I started writing out the letters they'd be sending back and forth. That way I could blur the intervening time until I can bring them together at Diagon Alley and their change in dynamic would seem much more natural. I never intended them to make it into the story though - just for them to be reference material that I'd have to look back on when I needed it. The longer they went on though the more chemistry developed between the two characters and more side bits of information were introduced.

In the end it felt like in order to do the H/Hr relationship justice that I'd have to include them, even if a lot of what they say is going to be review. Crawling back-and-forth between these characters' heads was very draining in the first place so once the decision to include the letters was made I included them as they were and didn't go back to edit them down to reduce story redundancy or input real-time character thoughts and reactions, as was done in Chapter 2. I understand that this can be a substantial roadblock for some people but felt that getting to see the characters show a bit more of their inner self - as one can only do in flirtatious writing - would serve as a bit of a counterbalance.

.o0O0o.

Dan Granger was in his comfortable chair enjoying a Sunday morning spent reading quietly with his wife. That hers was the latest medical journal while his was the latest tabloid bothered neither in the slightest. He was just shaking his head in wonder at the outrageous headlines when he heard it, this high–pitched _squeal_ from somewhere up above. The sound of a door being thrown open was quickly followed by a herd of rampaging wildebeests rolling down the stairs and bouncing off the walls as it went.

One particularly wild wildebeest chose to make the most fantastic of entrances by leaping the last several steps and landing in the most undignified fashion by stumbling to a halt, its mane streaming along behind it and young face alight. That this wildebeest was his daughter only puzzled him slightly. He had been encouraging her to let her inner Granger out more often and just be herself but he certainly didn't expect it to be such a smelly thing and certainly hoped it was housebroken.

His daughter saw her mother and instantly went into Protective Puckle Mode, face blank and body rigidly erect. This smaller Puckle model had the added feature of Proud Defiance though, so her head was held high as if daring its predecessor to do its worst.

"Since when do we allow running through the house?" Puckle Prime asked her daughter, glancing up from her reading with one eyebrow raised in the most Vulcan–like way.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Puckle," the little Puckle replied with a false smile in place as if its razor thin edge could cut. She never referred to her mother as her mother any more. A new development, now it was always Dad and Dr. Puckle.

"–I didn't know you'd be here," his daughter explained. "I was under the impression that you had a surgery to perform today," she said formally.

"I had one scheduled," Puckle Prime responded. "The man died last night from injuries sustained in the collision. Continuing as planned seemed a moot point after that."

He couldn't miss his wife's eyes glance down to what was absentmindedly clasped in Hermione's hand. Into the presence of this strong young bull his little Puckle had mistakenly brought the bright red of a matador's cape in the form a half–eaten Bournville bar.

He cleared his throat slightly and ruffled his tabloid, hoping to get his daughter's attention. She glanced in his direction long enough for him to shoot an urgent warning about the danger she literally carried. The Bournville shifted slightly and the color drained from the little Puckle's face as she realized what she'd done. Rather than hide it or flee, his little Puckle did the only thing she could.

"Well, don't let me disturb you," she said as dignified as she could before withdrawing the rest of the half–eaten candy bar, stuffing it in her mouth, and giving it a good chew before walking away.

_'__The girl is_ mad,' he thought. _'And I like it. Wizarding world watch out!'_

The girl in question only got a few steps before Puckle Prime had to get in the last word.

"Make sure to brush your teeth."

The girl seemed to cringe for a moment before she disappeared into the kitchen.

_'__Hang on_,' the man thought, _'that's tacit acceptance. Did Hermione just _win_ against the Puckle?'_

The Puckle glanced in his direction and he gave her his widest wan smile, clearly meant to convey an 'I made that' sense of pride as he got up to follow his daughter, leaving his tabloid behind.

As he got to the door–less entry into the kitchen he found the open fridge door blocking his way and he stood still and tried to control his breathing lest it tip the little Puckle off to his presence. He loved this part. The fridge door quickly closed, his sudden appearance scaring the life out of the girl as she jumped in alarm.

"Don't do that!" the shocked little Puckle said as she calmed herself and rinsed the overwhelming taste of chocolate out of her mouth by drinking the skim milk she had commandeered from mother's supply. "I hate it when you do that."

"But it's so much fun," he said, "and I can never sneak up on your mother."

His daughter rolled her eyes and shook her head at him.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Well what?" she asked in return clearly not in the mood to talk any more.

"Well, are you going to tell me why you went _'Eeeeee!'_ and decided to do cartwheels down the stairs?" he asked hoping to inject a bit of humor into the situation. "Or should I just guess?"

His daughter looked interested in finding out how good of a guesser he was.

"I take it you got a response?" he asked in a way to solicit more information.

"Yes," she said neutrally, rinsing out her glass in the sink and setting it out to be properly washed. Though she had turned her head away from him, he couldn't help but notice the tiniest upturn tugging on her lips.

"And the result was favorable?" he continued.

The war to keep from smiling intensified, and was finally lost as she blushed.

"He said he'd like to get to know me too," she informed him.

The father beamed. The daughter huffed and rolled her eyes again.

"You can go ahead and say it," the little Puckle said.

"Say what?" he asked, as if he honestly didn't know where she was going with this and truly hurt that she thought he'd mock this momentous new development.

"Go ahead and say 'I told you so,'" the girl said. "–And that I should have just talked to him myself from the beginning."

"Oh, pish, why would I say 'I told you so,'" he started somberly, "–when saying 'I was right' sounds so much better?" he finished smiling. "But!" he interjected to keep his daughter from leaving in a huff too soon. "Now that you've won against the Puckle, what are you going to do with the rest of your summer?"

The little Puckle looked inwards as it reviewed its databanks on the last encounter with her predecessor.

"Is that what winning looks like?" she asked.

"The dreaded Dr. Puckle saw you cram an entire bar of chocolate in your mouth and all she said was 'Make sure to brush your teeth'?" he reminded her. "That's either you winning or her way of saying that you've been fighting against a barn door the entire time."

She seemed to think for a moment.

"I choose to win," she declared.

"That means I can eat candy," the dentist smiled.

Hermione looked up at him as if puzzled that this was all her great victory over her mother had meant to him.

"Well if you can, I can," he explained. "Go team," he said, giving her the 'thumbs up' gesture.

The girl gave her father a look that said she had severe doubts about whether she was actually related to him or not.

"I told Harry that we'd be going to Diagon Alley the Wednesday after we get our list of school supplies," she said, changing the subject.

"Ah, on Wednesday," he said sagely. "–The only day of the week this month that your mother can't go anywhere."

"Oh, was that Wednesdays?" she asked innocently. "I must have forgotten."

"You know it was Wednesdays. Feigning ignorance was never your strong suit."

"Well, you wouldn't want to make me into a liar, would you?" she asked.

"I don't have to," her father said. "You already are one. Good for you," he said with an oddly cheery tone. "Go on and tell this Harry that we'll be there. I take it that you're going to be writing to him more often then?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, as if he had asked if the sky was blue.

"Then–," he said as he gestured nebulously with his hands as he did when searching for the right wording that would let him avoid getting smacked by perturbed Puckles. "–You might not want to use that quill that's on your desk then."

"Why? What's wrong with my favorite quill?" Hermione asked concerned.

"Oh, nothing – nothing," he reassured her quickly. "But _that's_ not your favorite quill. That's a – hang on, I've got it here–" He rummaged through his pocket to produce a mangled package. _"'Get in touch with your innermost feelings_,'" the father read as a look of dread spread across his daughter's face, _"'with the Heartseeker Quill–_'"

Hermione snatched the folded packaging out of his hands to see for herself.

"You pranked me!" she asked, her voice starting an upward climb. "Where did you get this!"

"I got it at that nice Diagon Alley place," he said, his hands held out to ward off any incoming blows. "I thought it'd be a nice therapeutic tool but never could find a way to trick your mother into using it."

"You realize how badly that could have gone?" she asked, her bushy mane seeming to get bigger with each passing moment.

"I only wanted you to be yourself," he said quickly. "In my defense, you said it went well. The man said that if you really wanted to hide something it wouldn't make you write it. It's just supposed to be a simple suggestion. Why, what did you say?"

"I told him that we should have twenty kids and get started right away! I guess next summer I'll be having a little bundle to bring home with me," she said acidly.

The color drained from Dan Granger's face as he dropped his hands in defeat.

"Please tell me you're not serious."

"Of course I'm not serious!" Hermione said, smacking him in the chest. "Now you know how pranking feels."

"Ow," he complained, his hand rubbing his chest. "You can't do that to a parent, it's not playing fair."

"Mother taught me to win, not to play fair," she said shockingly assertively. "Maybe you should remember that I'm a little bit Puckle, even if I'm not a Little Puckle."

The wild beast that was his daughter stalked off back to her lair without a backwards glance.

_'__Not so much a wildebeest_,' the man thought to himself after a moment as he made his way back to his chair. _'More like the lions that eat them. Definitely has the Puckle temper. Good thing she sees something positive about being one, _and_ she's calling her mother her mother again. Maybe if we can get a bit of that Granger softer side to show itself we could get a nice _blend_ going._' He shrugged. _'Maybe that Harry will be good for her_.'

"Congratulations," his wife said to him as he settled back into his chair.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"She's sullen, irritable, rebellious, she hates her parents, and there's a boy involved, unless I misinterpreted the squee from earlier," the good doctor fired off her check list as if listing a patent's symptoms, without ever looking up from her reading. "Your daughter's a teenager. You must be so happy."

"Happy? Ha!" the man cried as he kicked back and put his feet up with his recliner. "If one of those were true, I'd be happy. With all of them true – I'm _ecstatic_," he grinned.

She looked up from her reading.

"So you're not going to be the overprotective father and try to run the boy off before he can defile your daughter? That's very mature of you," she said neutrally, seeming to expose by accident the article she was reading about sexually transmitted diseases.

"I'm not going to let you get to me," he said, wagging his finger at her. "Today was a good day."

The dreaded Dr. Puckle smiled one of her rare half–smiles as her husband concentrated overly hard on reading an article about a mad horse–faced woman in Surrey that claimed a horde of goblins and a rock star had stolen her washing machine.

.o0O0o. Arrives Early Sunday Afternoon .o0O0o.

Hey Harry,

As I sit down to write this I find that I have absolutely no idea what to say. I'd ask what on Earth possessed you to read those letters – when I specifically told you not to – except for the fact that you might suddenly change your mind. To be honest, I was terrified that you'd read them and dreading the response I'd get because the last thing I wanted was to ruin our friendship. Not that I'm not thrilled at the prospect of getting to know you better – it seems that between You–Know–Who, Hagrid's pets, and just school itself there doesn't seem to have been any time to really get to know your best friends very well at all.

Of course, just from your last letter alone I've got a hundred questions to ask, most of which you probably can't answer. Can I assume that the "something odd" that happened was that your mail wasn't being delivered for some reason? Ron thought it might have been his owl's fault – it really is an old bird that's on its last leg – I had been using it when it delivered mail here because of how impersonally Imogen behaves and the fact that I knew you'd be somewhere in between my place and his.

I'd ask how anything could intercept an owl but that would probably be close to the top of the "I can't talk about that" list, so instead I'll try to be as vague in my questions about those sensitive topics as possible. From the consequences of 'whatever it is that's going on' getting out before you're ready, I can understand why you'd want to keep things a secret, at least for now. I can only hope to be filled in once you're able to.

I'm very glad about the change in your situation; I was really starting to worry about that. The silence coming from your end made me think that all sorts of horrible things might've been happening there. I can only hope that it wasn't the case. If it was though, I've heard that those who go through that are prone to not want to talk about it, but should you ever decide that you do want to talk, know that I'm always here for you.

Can I assume that whatever legal troubles you have at the moment are about the family situation you've always disliked and your desire to make the new situation permanent, and not about what happened before the end of term? If not, should I get legal counsel as well and how would I go about doing that?

You mentioned a grandfather's bailiff. The use of that rather archaic title, and where you are now, would suggest that this was for your father's side. I'm glad that you've got someone who's able to help you, especially one who may be able to tell you more about your family. It's just not right that you know so little about how they died and nothing at all about how they lived. I do hope that he's able to shed some light on that subject for you.

It was sweet for the Weasleys to have a party for you, and for Bill to let you have his old room. Ron always mentions his oldest brothers in such legendary terms that it's hard to believe they're real. So what was he like? Did he say what Egypt is like? What does he do there? Does he know any interesting Egyptian magic? How does it compare to ours? It sounds like such an amazing opportunity to learn what another culture is like; I do hope you took advantage of it. But I suppose hoping for that is like hoping that you've been studying. –smile–

As for me, I actually have been studying. Professor McGonagall was incredibly busy with finding all of this year's new students – I had no idea how much work was involved – but she managed to find the time to send me a few mental exercises and depictions of wand movements that she said would make the transfiguration work easier this year. I've actually been able to study up a bit too. A copy of the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 showed up on the same day as McGonagall's letter. She didn't say anything in her letter about sending it so I think it may have come from Professor Flitwick.

Before that, I was pretty much just stuck at home and not really able to do anything. Now that I'm no longer enrolled at my old school I'm not allowed to check out books there anymore, which is a shame since it's only about two blocks away and had a nice summer check–out program. They wanted to make an exception since I was such a good student but Mrs. Bidwell said that she had to say no. And with the public library being so far away–

It left me with a lot time to revise my notes from last year and read up a bit on History of Magic though. It's such a shame that the teacher is such a bore when the subject is so interesting. I must say though that I've found that besides the basic facts and dates a great deal of what Bagshot includes seems to be unsubstantiated third– and fourth–hand accounts that makes everything seem far too much like myth than actual history and she doesn't seem to believe in using any form of citation at all. Something tells me that the scholastic heights of the wizarding world is rather thin and lacking the intellectual rigor of their muggle counterpart.

When it comes to my home life, I may just have to wait to tell you about that until things are less emotionally charged. My mother and I have been at odds and I'm rather upset at my father at the moment. Besides that, there's frightfully little to tell, I think. My parents are both dentists, I've lived in the same house and have gone to the same school before entering Hogwarts. My dad's even had the same car since the 70s.

All that said; I'm rather wary about asking about your life lest it bring up some issues that you'd be uncomfortable dealing with. I did mean what I said before though, I'm here for you if you want to talk, and if you don't want me to repeat anything, I won't. I want to get to know you because you're my friend, not just because I happen to like you as well, and that means accepting you, warts and all.

Love always, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Very Late Sunday Evening/Early Monday Morning .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

I know exactly what you mean about not knowing what to say. Even after I got going I had to figure out what I could say and what I couldn't. I'm glad you understand about that. I promise to let you know what's going on as soon as I can.

It was actually you telling me that I should bin them that got me to read those letters in the first place. It was such an unHermione–like thing to say that I simply had to read them. I can only imagine what it was like to say all that and then be left waiting for a response that never came. It must've been awful. How could you think I'd say no though? You're my best friend. I can't think of anything better than to get to know you, and if the big grin I have right now is anything to go by then I'd have to say I like you too.

And thanks for mentioning Hagrid's pets. That reminds me to send him a response to his letter; I'll send it along with this one, though that'll mean you'll have to use Imogen to send your reply. I thought it might've just been me she didn't like. Maybe if you start using her more often she'd lighten up a bit?

Anyway, in his letter Hagrid mentioned that he had gotten me something for my birthday only it had escaped before he could send it, so I wanted to let him know that I appreciate the thought more than having any animal he could find. Besides Hedwig, who's much more like family to me, I'm not sure I'm that much of a pet person. The Dursleys certainly wouldn't have approved and likely would've taken it to the pound. Now that I'm away from there I wouldn't want to impose on the Weasleys any more than I already am. The way things turned out, Bill and the goblins not only turned up with my school things but my entire bedroom set as well, so I guess I can no longer claim to travel light. They even stole Aunt Petunia's washing machine!

You're right about that being the "something odd" that prevented me from getting my letters. What actually happened turns out to be something that would get a new friend of mine into a lot of trouble, so I'll have to wait until I can introduce you to tell you the whole story about that. As it happens, that event is what got me out of "the family situation" and started all the legal problems.

Those legal problems only deal with me and aren't about that thing that happened at the end of term, so you wouldn't need a litigator. I wouldn't know where to start looking for one of those on my own. I didn't see any magical law offices in Diagon Alley, but at the time I didn't know to look for them. Lichfield happens to work for – another place – and is taking my case as an extension of his former bailiff duties and to help that employer. I think I should keep all that a secret for now, but if a certain thing happens that they're expecting to happen, I may be able to tell you a lot more before too long.

You're right about Lichfield though, from what's been said he actually knew my grandfather since their Hogwarts days. Turns out that his name was Charlus. I kind of got the feeling that he and my grandfather were best friends. He kept saying stuff like, "that's what Charlus would do." He didn't say anything about my grandmother but maybe he was just more his friend than hers. Then again, from what I heard, her grandfather was a Hogwarts headmaster the likes of Malfoy and was so bad that the goblins today still call him "Phineas the Foul," so maybe he didn't like her and didn't want to say. He didn't say much about my parents either though besides the fact that he'd only met them a few times, so who knows. Apparently I met him as a baby.

Speaking of which, it turns out my name is Harold and nobody ever told me. Looks like my mother named me after her father and he had been named Harold, though everyone called him Harry. For all the official grown up stuff I've decided to use the name Harold, since it makes me sound older and more responsible, while my friends can still call me Harry.

Bill was a nice guy; looked like a rock star though. He was not what I was expecting at all. I guess that's what comes from being a Curse–breaker. I missed most of the Cairo conversation because Mr. Weasley kept me glued to his side all night asking me things like what the purpose of a rubber duck was and how airplanes stayed up. From what I heard it sounded like Bill's job was all about breaking into old tombs and dealing with mummies while looking for treasure. It makes him sound like Indiana Jones.

Speaking of that, I got something from Ron's little sister that's – well, it's quite disturbing actually. If you promise not to make fun of me or tell anyone how embarrassing it'd be for me to be ribbed for it, then I'll send it to you with my next letter. It looks like she grew up with a whole bunch of them and had kind of fallen in love with them. She actually fainted when I arrived. It's made things rather awkward and she's avoided me ever since, but I did manage to save her from being eaten by a couch later on. She asked me not to tell anyone about that but I think she just meant not to tell her brothers. I feel kind of bad for her, but it also doesn't seem right to be around her since – well, since I'm already getting to know you.

I should have known that you'd find some way to get a new book, even when you haven't been to Diagon Alley yet. That first letter of yours made me think that you'd start up a summer check–out program for Hogwarts as soon as you got back just to make sure that you wouldn't be without a book to read ever again. Hang on – is that why you're so good? You've been studying ahead all this time? Now that I think about it, you did say on the train that you'd already tried a few spells. Just how long have you been studying magic?

You can stop making fun of me for not doing the same though. I actually managed to get almost an hour in on Charms before Ron came in to drag me into a two–on–two Quidditch game with Fred and George, not that he had to drag me that hard. I also plan on maybe another hour or two after dinner. I've had to tell them that I can't tell them about what's going on either, though they do know a tiny bit. They seem to think I'm writing to Lichfield now. Knowing what kind of stuff Fred and George would get up to if they knew the truth, I'm happy to let them think so. I hadn't noticed that about History of Magic, maybe I'll look at that tonight. If all else fails I can imagine Binn's droning voice and I'll be out like a light in no time.

Sorry to hear that you and your parents aren't getting along. It's not about me, or about us writing to each other, is it? I don't want to get you in trouble. I was going to say that we could always just talk in person once we get back to Hogwarts, but with Ron and everyone else there too that might be harder than it sounds. It's not like we could talk in the library without Madam Pince kicking us out. It makes me wonder how the older students get to know each other in the first place.

That reminds me, that new friend of mine warned me that "terrible things" were going to happen at Hogwarts this year. He couldn't say what it was, or who was behind it. He was pretty much only interested in making sure I stayed safe, even if that meant staying at the Dursleys. Luckily I managed to talk him into helping me instead. I'm hoping he'll be able to tell me more once I can see him again. Either way we should be on our guard.

When it comes to my previous "family situation," it was nothing compared to what this new friend went through. The Dursleys may have kept me in the cupboard under the stairs, let Dudley steal my food, have me do their yard work, yelled at me every time anything "abnormal" happened, and never given me anything for Christmas or my birthday but at least they didn't make me punish myself regularly, let alone remind me to do extra punishments. He actually said he'd have to "shut his ears in the oven door" just for coming to see me.

The fact that I'm away from the Dursleys and looking forward to never seeing them again is all because of him. I told Lichfield to do whatever he could to get him out of that situation and that I didn't care how much it cost, so hopefully he'll be away from his family soon too. From talking to that new friend I learned that people sometimes have a big red button that it's better for people not to push. The Dursleys might be a bit of a button, but at least it doesn't have me ram my head against the wall like his did. I'm just glad to see the last of them and don't care what happens to them from here on out.

Well, that's not really a cheerful topic to end on but I can't really think of anything else to say. So what were the kids like at your old school and did you ever do anything odd that must've been magic?

Anyway, it's almost time for dinner so I better go get ready. Mrs. Weasley is a really good cook. After that, Ron will probably beat me at chess again before I make it back to the room. Even though it has all my stuff in it, it seems strange to call it "my room" when it's in Ron's house.

Always yours, Harry

.o0O0o. Arrives Early Monday Afternoon .o0O0o.

Hey Harry,

I guess I should have known that it would be a gamble to put that in there but I was in such a rush to write to you before you had a chance to read them that I didn't think it could have the opposite effect. I guess I really shouldn't complain though. As for the response that never came, well, that was a bit awful. I kept thinking that I had completely ruined our friendship and really crazy things like you and Ron were laughing about it behind my back, and that's not something you would do at all. I must say though that this big grin I got from reading that you like me might even make dealing with Imogen a pleasant experience.

It's a pity about you and pets. I wonder what the pound would do if Hagrid had sent you a Fluffy Jr. I had been thinking of getting one myself. Not a Cerberus of course, maybe a cat. Something where the hair would get all over the place and stand out would really get to my mother. Then again, now that I've won one victory it might not be time to press my luck. I'll try Imogen more often, but she'll probably bolt almost as soon as she arrives, she always has with Dad's letters to me.

Oh, I've just got to tell you! You made the tabloids! My father has the habit of reading them; he says he finds them funny. Anyway, you were on the front page! Well, not you exactly, it was your aunt. At least I assume it was your aunt because it really couldn't be anyone else. Her name was Petunia Dursley, she lives in Surrey, and she claimed that a rock star and a horde of goblins had stolen her washing machine! I've enclosed the article so you can read all about it.

Why would you think I'd make fun of you? Maybe whatever she gave you is only funny in the muggle context; if Fred and George haven't made a joke about it yet then you're probably safe. It couldn't be any worse than having Indiana Weasley and the Goblins of Doom at your beck and call like you're Ali Baba and they're your forty thieves. I appreciate your loyalty but you do know you can have other friends besides me, right? What's her name anyway? We can't just keep calling her 'Ron's little sister.'

Who's this other new friend you mentioned, the one that got you away from the Dursleys? His family sounds absolutely horrible. You're doing right thing by getting him out of there. I'm so proud of you. If you think it'd be too much of an imposition on the Weasleys, I could always ask my parents if we could take him in, at least until school starts. Does the wizarding world have some sort of Child Protection System to help children in need like that? What about a child placement or adoptive services? It's not just about getting him away from the abuse; it's also about getting him into a good environment.

Don't worry about me and my parents; it actually has nothing to do with you. Well, not really. My Dad's been really supportive, a little too supportive actually. He pranked me with a magical quill so I'd be "more in touch with my innermost feelings" when I wrote that first letter. I still haven't completely forgiven him for how spectacularly wrong it could have gone, though the washing machine and telling him that I had said that we should have 20 kids immediately has helped even things out. For now that quill is being kept in my book bag so I know where it is at all times and he can't do it again. I swear; the man's such a child. It's like having Fred and George as your father, except he's actually nice to talk to from time to time.

As for my mother, she's a bit of a button. A really big button that flashes and beeps and shocks you no matter what you do. Not quite to the point of making me run into a wall, which I hope you were joking about, but she has made me cry on more than one occasion. Excuse me while I go curl up for a while. Okay, I'm back. Sorry, it seems like she's even less of a cheerful topic than the Dursleys are. Maybe we should just avoid both of those for a while.

Let's see, what haven't I covered? Oh! I managed to find that relative of yours in _Hogwarts, a History_. They didn't call him "Phineas the Foul," but they did say that his tenure was "a dark time for Hogwarts marked by strain with the goblins and division amongst the Houses," not to mention the near abandonment of Hogsmeade, so it's got to be Phineas Nigellus Black, the only Slytherin ever to be appointed Headmaster. You'd think there'd be more than that, seeing how the position is so influential on future generations, not to mention Hogsmeade itself.

And speaking of the village, if you're really interested in how older students get to know each other, Third Years and up are allowed to visit Hogsmeade on certain scheduled weekends and those occasions have become a rather traditional time for many first dates. There may be more than a year between now and then but at least that's something to look forward to. I think Ron and the others are likely to be an issue no matter where we talk though. It's doubtful they'd let the opportunity to poke fun or prank us slide, and I'd really like not to be banned from the Library for life.

So you're a Harold? I must admit, Harold Potter is going to take some getting used to. It certainly makes you sound older. My Dad liked it better when I was writing to Harry rather than when I said I'd be writing to Harold, so I may just have to tease him with that a bit. I guess to him Harold sounds like someone who already shaves and drives a car. He did turn it around on me though and said, "No wonder you're so mature for your age, between Harold and Ronald you hang out with two '–old' men." That should give you a picture of what my Dad is like.

It's a pity that this Lichfield couldn't tell you much about what your Dad was like, though I guess it's early. There's no telling what he could tell you in time. Still, getting to know about your grandparents is nothing to sneeze at. Both of my Dad's parents died years before I was born and my mother was adopted and never knew, or cared, about her biological parents and I doubt her adoptive ones ever knew what to make of her, not like anyone does.

I must say that I'm proud of you again for studying. If you keep up the hard work maybe you'll find that spending some time in the Library isn't such a bad thing after all. I don't expect to see you in there all the time, but if you happen to drop by, I'll make sure to save a seat for you. –smile–

A summer check–out program for Hogwarts is a great idea. If they have all those owls then they might as well use them. I'm sure they'd know some way they could use magic to make sure that the books make their way back on time and don't get damaged. I wonder if anyone's around during the summer to run it. I'll have to talk to Professor McGonagall, and probably Madam Pince, to see if we can set something up.

Now I wouldn't say that studying ahead is the only reason I happen to be at the top of the class, I actually did do a lot of studying during the year itself you know. I must admit that I did have a bit of a lead though, but nothing compared to what those with wizarding families would have if they just applied themselves.

From what I remember, I think McGonagall said they were trying out a new system and approaching everyone close to their birthdays, rather than all at once during the summer. I can only assume they've stopped and went back to the old way since she's spent this summer chasing down the new students for this year. Anyway, that means I had almost a year between when I got my letter and when we started Hogwarts. But when you compare that to the years of education magical families could provide their children, a year doesn't really amount to much at all.

And as for trying a few simple spells – well, McGonagall could tell that I _really_ wanted to get started, she said she had been the same way when she was eleven, and said that after we start school that we wouldn't be allowed to practice magic at home, but before we start, as long as we didn't do it too much, the Ministry tends to cut new students a good bit of slack. As my Dad said, you can't give a bunch of kids a magic wand and expect them not to use it a time or two, even by accident.

I only did use it for a few simple spells though, and that was because my Dad thought we should make sure everything worked like it should. Besides that it was a lot of reading, quizzes, and some flash card drills. My Dad turned out to be really good at picking out questions the professors were likely to ask, he said it came from being a Teacher's Assistant in college. I should really get him to do that again after we get our other books.

The kids at my last school were alright, I liked the teachers better though. They always liked it when we studied hard and applied ourselves; some of the other girls got snippy whenever anyone else did better than they did. But it shouldn't be surprising that they didn't do well when they wouldn't even crack a book and expected the answers to just fall into their lap, or worse, expected them to be provided for them just because they were pretty, popular, and had a group of friends that did whatever they said.

Sorry, I was just remembering the school "popular girl," Sheryl. She tried to pick on me once and stole my homework. I got _so mad_ at her that for the entire day she couldn't speak a word. So much for Sheryl trying to make herself look good by reading off my answers to the class. Since I had actually done the homework I was able to do the work again really quickly, and that made me look even better for answering the questions after poor Sheryl was left almost in tears because she couldn't talk. They eventually had to send her home. She never tried that again.

I suppose the whole "my room" thing could be because you know it's temporary, or just because you haven't settled in yet. My dorm at Hogwarts doesn't feel like it's "my room" either, and we spend almost ten months there. I don't know if it's just because I have to share with other people or it's what those people are talking about, but it's hard to feel at home when Lavender and Parvati are giggling over fashion and trading the latest gossip. I think they're the reason I rarely saw Sally–Anne and that other dorm mate of ours she always went around with. I'm not sure I know her name; Fay, I think. They avoided the Talkative Two like the plague.

Well, I guess I should give Imogen a try. I hope this works.

Love always, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Monday Evening .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

Don't tell this to Hedwig but I think Imogen might be faster. Your last letter didn't get here until late evening. I don't know how long I've got on this. She _really_ doesn't like being locked in Hedwig's cage. I thought that might keep her from flying away but it just made her go mad as soon as I removed the letter. I think I'm going to have to send her off with this now and try again once Hedwig gets back.

Always yours, Harry

P.S. She bit me!

.o0O0o. Arrives Tuesday Morning .o0O0o.

Hey Harry,

She looked rather ruffled when she arrived and flew off to her tree as soon as she could, so I don't think Imogen enjoyed that trip at all. I think I'll wait until tomorrow morning before I try sending her again. If I ask her very nicely to wait on a response, maybe that'll help. It might take a bit of groveling on your part to make amends though. –smile–

Since your letter was so short there's not much for me to respond to. I can only guess at what you're likely to say when you can finally send your full response to my last letter so it's not like I can preemptively answer questions when you might ask something completely different. I wish I had made copies of my letters so I could have a better idea at what you're likely to ask.

How long do you think it'll be before Hedwig gets back? I really should look up the different owl species to check on their flying speed. Perhaps they'll have something on temperament as well. There's got to be something out there that'll explain why Imogen is the way she is. Do you think magical post owls might pick up a bit of the personality of their owners? My mother was the one who picked out Imogen and she's always reminded me of her. I'll see what I can find.

Hey Harry, I just got back from my old school library. The librarian let me slip in since Mrs. Bidwell was out that day and said that as long as I didn't check anything out, she didn't have to know I was ever there. It was amazing! I never thought I'd not want to be a witch and just stay in my normal school but what they've got there is phenomenal.

I'd never believe it possible but they have a computer there that can use a _telephone _to call other computers and look up information on whatever you want! They call it the Internet and it'll probably be everywhere soon. It's like if all the books in the library were all hooked together with magic and all you had to do was pull one of them down and ask them something and you'd open it to find all the information you could ever want on that topic. Isn't that unbelievable? The wizarding world has got to have something like this; it just has to because the possibilities for schoolwork and research are so tremendous.

Sorry, I got a little carried away. I looked up a bit on the different owl species. Imogen is a tawny owl, and they actually are faster than the snowy owl, though I certainly wouldn't tell that to Hedwig. I think I've found something that may explain Imogen's behavior though. Tawny owls are solitary, non–migratory, and very territorial. This might explain why Imogen flies back as soon as she can, her instincts must be screaming at her to get back here, and since she's not naturally used to traveling or being around others, let alone being around either of us, that explains why she wouldn't want to hang around any longer than she has to. They've also been known to starve if they can't find a stable source of food within a stable territory so she'd also likely be concerned about intruders taking over her spot while she's gone.

I did notice several inconsistencies though. Tawny owls are supposed to be nocturnal and snowy owls are diurnal (meaning they're active during the day), but both seem to be active at both times of the day and, I suppose, sleep whenever they can. Female snowy owls are also supposed to have flecks of black or gray in their feathers as well, only the males are supposed to be completely white. All of that, and the fact that Imogen seems fine when delivering mail but reverts to her natural impulses once the mail is removed, tells me that there has to be magic involved.

I don't think whoever provides these owls to the shops would purposely do anything they thought would hurt the owls, but changing their normal sleep cycle to be more convenient for us can't be good for them when they've evolved to be the other way around. Neither can changing Hedwig's coloration to be pure white. While it certainly makes her look pretty to us, it'd be a shame if she never found a mate and had a clutch of her own just because all the other snowy owls thought she was male.

Oh, I also learned that snowy owls have been known to hunt and eat other birds and that tawny owls are often at risk from larger birds, so Imogen might see Hedwig as a natural predator, which explains why I've never seen her around when Hedwig shows up. I haven't seen them go after each other so I can only hope that some of that magic would be used to prevent owl–on–owl violence, otherwise the whole owl post system would be at risk and I'd hate to see what the Owlery at Hogwarts would be like then.

Anyway, I think that's enough of that for this letter so I think I'll see if Imogen's up for another trip.

Love always, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Tuesday Afternoon .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

Things are much quieter now that Imogen's gone. I didn't realize just how loud she'd been until Mrs. Weasley came in wondering if I had been torturing Hedwig. She suggested I try Hermes, that's the owl they got Percy when he made Prefect, since Errol's so shoddy but Percy said he was using him.

Percy's actually been spending more time than his room than I have. I feel kind of bad about that. Ron asked me to come visit so many times, and I've been itching to get here all summer, and now that I'm here I spend half the time in this room that I've kind of stolen from them. But at the same time I can't really feel too bad about it because it's time I kind of get to spend with you. I mean, I know you're on the other side of the country, but when I'm here writing to you it kind of feels like you're here, if that makes any sense at all.

Anyway, I can only say sorry for that response that never came, or I guess I should say the response that was really really late. That new friend would say he's sorry too if he could. He actually felt really bad about stopping my letters, but since that's what lead to us being friends and the two of us writing to each other now, I guess I can't be too mad at him.

Even if he hadn't done what he did, I still wouldn't have been able to write to you since Uncle Vernon had locked Hedwig in her cage and all my things were locked up in the cupboard under the stairs. So, in a weird way, having those letters delivered properly actually would have made being at the Dursleys worse since I would have known you liked me, not been able to respond, and then known that by not responding I was making your life worse. I probably would've run away earlier if that had happened.

As much as I'd like to tell you about that new friend, I don't think I can. It doesn't look like our mail's being intercepted but just knowing his name and what his family's like was enough to give Lichfield something to go on to track them down and I don't want anything to get in the way of getting him out of there. No one should have to go through what he's been through. Not even Snape or Malfoy – well, maybe – no, not even them.

The less I tell you about what the Ministry does with kids the better off this conversation will be because I'm one of them. I think it'd be best that he stay with me once he's out of there. I know the Weasleys would treat him well and there's no one else in the wizarding world I trust except Lichfield, and he's already got his hands full. Your place would be out for magical reasons.

You said a bailiff was an old title? What do they do anyway? I got the impression that it was a bunch of legal stuff and helping my grandfather deal with rents and leases and the people on our land. I have to get used to saying our land or the land because my family still owns it even if other people are living on it, and whenever I started to call it their land (meaning the people who actually live on it) Lichfield looked like he was going to poke me. And if you ever saw Lichfield you wouldn't want his poking finger anywhere near you.

Anyway, are you sure you don't want a Cerberus? I'm sure Hagrid would let you have Fluffy if you said he'd be in a good home. At the very least he'd be out of that corridor. I imagine your dad would love to have him and if that didn't annoy your mum and get hair everywhere then nothing would.

And thanks so much for the tabloid article! That was them alright. It's probably the first time I ever smiled when I saw the Dursleys. Lichfield said something about letting them go the authorities if they didn't like the goblins taking my stuff and it looks like they did. Now the whole country thinks they're crazy. That alone has made this whole thing worthwhile. The only thing they ever cared about was what other people thought of them so now that Aunt Petunia is the crazy goblin lady I can see their precious social calendar being empty in no time.

I'll take that Indiana Weasley comment as your promise and you'd better remember you made it when you see what I'm sending. I'll try to attach both it and this letter to Imogen before I remove your letter, if she gets back before Hedwig does that is. That way if she flies off again right away then at least she'll be carrying something back to you. I haven't looked inside it yet; I don't really think I want to know what happens in them. It might make being in the same room with Ginny worse than it is now.

That's Ron's little sister, by the way, and I don't think she's looking for friendship. I've seen her watching from her room when we play Quidditch and looking at me when we're playing chess or exploding snap. Half the time she looks at me like she wishes I would leave, the rest of the time she seems disappointed that I'm not someone else. She's already said that she doesn't want _me;_ she wants the person from the book I'm sending you. She didn't know I heard it when she said it but it was pretty obvious afterwards when the couch swallowed her up. I think she's disappointed that I don't measure up to, well, _me_.

And twenty kids? That's three times more than the Weasleys! I hope you have a big house. You haven't started planning out their names yet, have you? Apparently the whole wizarding world expects them to be named James and Lily after my parents. Not that it's a bad idea; I just wish they had let me think of it first. Twenty is a lot of Jameses and Lilies though; it'd probably get confusing pretty quick. I suppose we could always call them by number instead.

I can see what you were saying about your Dad. That does sound like a Fred and George thing to do, but I kind of see why he did it. You're not still using it, are you? Because, to be honest, I don't remember you being this relaxed or funny all year. Where was this Hermione, and is she the one that's going to be with us this year? Because if she is, that seat in the Library might just be filled more often than not.

And since it's only a year away, I guess I should go ahead and ask if you'd like to go to Hogsmeade with me now so that no one else can come in and ask before I get a chance to. That seems like the Harold thing to do. That way I have a whole year to mess things up and for them to prank us before you have to say no.

So I'm related to a Slytherin Headmaster? It doesn't surprise me that he'd be a Slytherin. I guess I was just hoping there'd been some kind of mistake. I suppose it makes sense why the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin then. It kind of goes in families, doesn't it? My Dad and Mum might've been Gryffindors but both of my Dad's parents could've been Slytherins and their parents before them, and how would I ever know?

Could you imagine _me_ having to room with Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle? And to think, I visit the hospital wing often enough as it is. If I got Sorted there I might as well just move in with Madam Pomfrey. I guess me being a Slytherin would also make sense since I did set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley once at the zoo. I didn't mean to, we'd just been talking and it said it had never been to Brazil, so when Dudley pushed me out of the way the glass keeping it in was just gone and off it went. That didn't pay him back for also being my bully at school, but it was funny. Still, I guess that was better than somehow ending up on the top of the school roof when running from his Harry Hunt and not being able to get back down. Being able to make my Uncle Vernon be quiet for an entire day would've been a nice trick to have. I wonder if that snake ever made it to Brazil.

I wasn't actually serious about that check–out program. That was supposed to be a joke. Lesson learned, never joke with Hermione when it comes to books. Don't worry though; I know you studied during the year. I happened to have been right there for a good bit of it. I wish I had whole year of extra study before Hogwarts; it would've made dealing with Malfoy easier. How would flash cards for magic even work anyway? You put the spell on one side and the wand movement on the other? You did master swish–and–flick a little too quickly.

The Ministry seems to have a lot of loopholes when it comes to magic outside of Hogwarts. Did you know that they can't tell who is casting magic in a magical home, or even if they're underage? Seems like they just ignore it and let the parents sort it out when there are older witches and wizards about. Magic in a muggle home though would be spotted instantly, they'd assume it's you, and you'd be given a warning. It's totally unfair, but then again, so is reading ahead while all I can do is try a few simple spells myself, just to see if they work. I'm not saying I did that, but don't tell anyone though, it's still illegal and they might try to cause trouble. Also, could you imagine what the Ministry would do if everyone found out that it worked that way? It'd only make things worse, and you wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?

Always yours, Harry

.o0O0o. Arrives Later Tuesday Afternoon – In the middle of the next letter .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

I guess the fastenings weren't tight enough because the book didn't go when Imogen did. She didn't look to be in a forgiving mood either. I'll try to send it with this letter later.

Was the Internet really that good that you'd give up magic? It'd be awfully lonely at Hogwarts without you. Who'd save me a seat in the Library or go to Hogsmeade with me then?

I think I remember hearing something about that computer stuff once. I think it was Uncle Vernon saying something about replacing all the workers in the factory with machines that he could tell what to do. If he did that though then who would he yell at?

That thing about connecting books together sounds really interesting though. It'd certainly make our essays for Potions easier to get through.

I'll have to remember all that about tawny owls for the next time Imogen stops by. Maybe if I show her a nice tree here to call her own that might make her more comfortable.

Hedwig's supposed to have black on her feathers? It'd definitely look odd now that I've gotten used to seeing her all white, but with the way she is it would be a shame if she never found a mate. You think we should ask someone about that? Hagrid's gamekeeper and he's never said anything. Then again, if it wasn't about a baby dragon he might not even notice. Wasn't there a class or something that dealt with animals? I think I remember hearing something about a professor who kept losing bits of fingers and things because of them. Then again, if he keeps being eaten then he might not be that good of a professor.

Speak of the devil, Hedwig's back! I better wrap this up. She didn't seem quite up for another trip, at least until I said that this could always wait until your owl got back and she could carry it for me. That got her. You might want to let her rest there though, she's probably tuckered out. And make sure to give her a very well done from me.

Harry

.o0O0o. Arrives Early Wednesday Afternoon .o0O0o.

OH MY GOD! First you run away from home and now you're doing illegal magic? And you're not even getting in trouble for it while I can't do the same? That is so unfair! I should write to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and tell them what you're doing, or worse, Professor McGonagall. I'm not going to though. If I did that then you might get expelled and I'd never see you again, not to mention you'd hate me and never want to talk to me again.

It's just – I never hated being a muggleborn until now. I know you probably don't see it, but that's only because even though you're muggle–raised and not muggle–born (that's one of the things I actually like most about you), people don't treat you that way. Everything is just so stacked against people with our background though. It's like we've barged into someone's private little clubhouse where we're not wanted and never should have been, and now they're trying everything they can to get us to leave. You seem to be the only exception, and that's because you're the Boy–Who–Lived.

I get one little advantage so I could put my best foot forward, only to find that there's a huge disadvantage on the other side that'll last for years while everyone else can go running off ahead if they like. I might as well be standing still or going backwards. Even if no one knows about it, like you imply, it's still there to be used against us. My father says I should try to beat them at their own game if I can, but how do I do that when it seems like the rules only apply to me? It's like I'm a pawn, everyone else is a queen, and the other side of the board is a million miles away. How can I ever even hope to catch up?

I know I shouldn't get like this, but I can't help it. I'm a worrier. I'm sure you'll do right by your new friend. The Weasleys sound nice, and I can't say there are any hard feelings about the letter. I'd hate to think the Ministry would be so – incompetent when it came to looking after people they're supposed to serve but I guess if they actually knew what they were doing then the laws they pass actually would make things worse rather than being something you can just brush aside most of the time.

To answer your question, what a muggle bailiff did actually changed over time and varied depending on where you were. What you describe is like the ones that served some lord or landed gentry (a form of quasi–lower noble whose living could be maintained purely through the collection of rents) hundreds of years ago in the muggle world. Some of their bailiffs were like police officers, court officials, or dealt with all sorts of issues relating to administration and land use. I'd ask just how much land we're talking about but I'm afraid it'd make me sound shallow. I never thought about what the agricultural side of the wizarding world must be like. It really goes to show how much there still is to learn.

The book you said you were sending never made it here, so I assume that you weren't able to attach it. The way you described what you had gotten from this Ginny girl made it sound like it was some sort of Harry Potter doll collection, which was rather funny; like a bunch of teddy bears with scars sown on their foreheads. I didn't even think that it'd be a book. I mean, I knew you were mentioned in _Modern Magical History,_ _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century,_ but they were little more than blurbs really. All they did was vaguely mention what happened and how it was so mysterious as to how you survived and what that might mean for your future.

One thing I wouldn't survive is having Fluffy as a pet. Even if he didn't eat me, my mother would kill me while my father would stand around saying that I had brought it on myself. If I want to get technical though, and you know I love to, I never actually promised not to pick on you about it. –smile– That said, I guess now I'm going to have to wait for Hedwig to get back and you send that book, just to see how bad it actually is before I send this letter.

If this Ginny grew up with books about you, and she acts that way, it makes me wonder what kind of books they are. If she's looking at you like that then she's probably built these elaborate castles in the air when it came to you, so she might actually be disappointed that you don't measure up. If that's the case, then her loss is my gain because you're an absolutely amazing person – even if you are a bit Slytherin.

You admit to running away, doing illegal magic, consorting with new friends who also do illegal things, are being very secretive about all of it, and try to guilt me into not revealing a word – and in the same letter you ask me out? No wonder the Sorting Hat didn't know where to put you; that's cunning, courageous, ambitious, and daring all at the same time. You'd be a shoo–in for Slytherin if they weren't all blonde pureblood bigots with slick–backed hair whose sneer is bigger than their brain nowadays. Who knows what they were like back in your grandparents' day but if the way your dad turned out is any indication, they must've been made from a better cut of cloth.

And really, when you get technical about it, you only said that you _should_ do that so that no one else can do it first. And since I was a hair's breadth away from being in Ravenclaw I can say that I'm much too clever to fall for that. I don't have to answer you at all then since you really didn't ask me out in the first place.

And speaking of Slytherin, when you said you were talking to a snake, was the snake doing the talking in English or were you doing the speaking to it? As bizarre as finding a magical talking snake in a muggle zoo would be the other sounds like – Oh! Hedwig's back! You manipulated Hedwig into delivering this? She'll definitely be staying here. I might just keep her with me from now on, just to make sure she stays out of your Slytherin hands, the poor male–looking girl. I feel so bad for her.

OH MY GOD! This is the book Ginny grew up with? _The_–_Boy_–_Who_–_Lived and the Chamber of Doom?_ I'm laughing so hard right now, I'm actually crying. I can't stop and my sides hurt so badly. If I pass out it's entirely your fault. Okay, I think I'm better. Nope, here come the giggles. I've got to show this to my Dad when I'm done with this. He never even implied that he wouldn't make fun of you. –smile–

Maybe it's a good thing I didn't give you a response to that question you didn't ask, because if this Harry showed up and asked me out I might just have to take him up on it. The two Harrys reminds me of your comment about the twenty kids. I'm not calling my children out by number, no matter who their father's parents are. And you go from "Always [my] Harry" to just Harry and expect a response to that unasked question? Well, if I was even thinking about giving you one before, I'm certainly not now.

To answer questions you did ask though, no, I'm not still using it and I don't know where this Hermione's been. She's probably been hiding from her mother to tell you the truth. As for being more relaxed and funny, maybe it's just because it's summer and I'm in my old room again that's gotten me so relaxed and the humor might be because this has been all done through letters where we have time to think about what we want to say before we write it.

Of course, it could just be you that brings it out in me. It does seem like a part of you is here with me when I'm writing to you, and I've never felt that way before, even when I was writing my Dad last year. Maybe it comes from not holding anything back and removing that filter that says, "No, you don't want to mention that," and "He'll take that the wrong way," or "You'll be mortified and he'll reject you if you say that."

I can only _hope _that this Hermione is going to be the one that goes to Hogwarts with you this year, because I'm really starting to like her, and that's not something I've ever said before. The Internet might be an amazing way of finding what I'm looking for but there's no way it would be able to find anything as special as you, which is something I didn't even know I was looking for, so it looks like you're stuck with me and the library for a while longer.

I think I'll just keep Imogen here since this is where she's most comfortable, not that that's saying very much, and I'll send Hedwig back when I think she's ready. That'll keep us to one letter back and forth a day and you can have more time to spend with those red–headed friends of ours who so graciously invited you to stay.

Courteous regards, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Wednesday Evening .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

Sorry for making you feel bad and being such a Slytherin. You saying "my Harry" makes me feel a lot better than when Ginny said it so here goes: Hermione Granger, will you go out with me?

Always Your Harry if you agree, Harry

.o0O0o.

Ron watched in horror as the Quaffle plummeted towards the ground _again_ with George close behind. It was the final match of the most involved two–on–two Quidditch series ever held at the Burrow and Harry chose now to get all twitchy? Everything was being taken into account here: how many goals, how many saves, how many times the Quaffle changed hands, and how long it took for one team to score a hundred points. This would determine once and for all who the best Chaser was, who was the best Keeper, and which two people played best with each other and in what positions. The only stat not in consideration was _how often you look off in the wrong direction_ _and drop the ball_, and that's the stat Harry seemed determined to dominate.

George easily recovered from Harry's foul up, pulled out of the dive, and with a burst of speed came straight at him. Harry had been acting strange all week, suddenly running off whenever that strange owl showed up and being holed up in Bill's old room for hours on end. Usually he managed to come to his senses long enough for a good game of Quidditch, lunch, maybe another game of Quidditch, some chess or exploding snap, dinner, and maybe a game of chess before disappearing again.

He pushed those thoughts aside; he was not going to be distracted now. With Harry's playing in the tank every scrap of his Keeper skills were being called up just to keep them in the game and he was not going to blow it now.

Left – right – left – right – George zigged and zagged as he closed on the goal until he finally began his throw. With a sudden burst of speed Ron shot to his right, snagging the Quaffle before it could cross the crossed branches that marked the goal. That was the fifth time he saved them after Harry's bungling and the game wasn't even over yet!

"Oi! Harry, get your head in the game!" he shouted as he scanned the clearing for his teammate. He checked down on the ground, then up in the air. Harry wasn't anywhere to be seen. Off to one side Fred and George already had their heads together comparing notes on the game.

"What happened?" Ron asked as he joined them.

"Game called on account of Harry," George explained, totaling up the figures.

"Take a look," Fred said, shaking his head and pointing to the receding form of Harry that was bounding back to the Burrow so quickly he could've been flying – if his trusty Nimbus hadn't been dropped and lying forgotten in the dirt.

"How can he live with himself, honestly?" Ron asked, shaking the dirt out of the Nimbus's tail as they headed back home.

"It's an absolute disgrace treating a Nimbus like that," Fred said. "What should we do, draw and quarter him?"

"Boil him in oil?" George offered.

"I think the broom needs a new owner," Ron declared, "at least until its current one learns to show it proper respect."

Fred and George made identical sounds of pain, their hands clutched to their hearts as if wounded.

"We're not even that harsh, little brother," George scolded him.

"Maybe if it were you, but not Harry," Fred explained.

Before they were even a quarter of the way home the distant Harry gave off a loud cheer, sending the white speck that was Hedwig flying back up to the open window of Bill's old room.

"Look at him," Ron said. "He's gone completely mental. It's like he's been crowned Emperor of the Moon or something."

They put the brooms back in their shed as George gave out the bad news.

"Turns out I'm incredibly mediocre," he said checking the final scores.

"Ah, don't let that get you down, Georgie. I could have told you that years ago," Fred consoled his twin. "Everyone knows I'm the heart, soul, and life of us. It only makes sense I'd be the better player too," he smiled.

"You're the better Chaser," George corrected his twin. "I'm the better Keeper. But this one," he gestured to Ron, "he came out of nowhere today to clobber my score. If I didn't know any better I'd swear those two planned it."

"What's that?" Ron asked, nosing his way over to check out the scores himself.

He was ahead. He might never make a passable Chaser, but in terms of Saves he was way ahead. It was with a bouncing mood that he led them into the Burrow. Ginny sat morosely at the kitchen table reading the copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ he had left out while their mum tried to covertly check and make sure her daughter wasn't doing anything she shouldn't be while starting to get ready for dinner.

"Harry back up in his room again?" Fred asked as he slumped into a chair, tired from hours spent defending a goal that had never once been assaulted.

"Oh, yes," their mother replied. "Probably won't see him until supper. He's as quiet as a house–elf, isn't he? I could do with ten more like him. Raising them would be a breeze," their mother beamed. Harry's quiet manner and voracious appetite had definitely gotten on her good side in the short time he'd been here. Ron doubted she'd hear a word against him.

"He spends a lot of time in that room," Ron said. "How often can he really write to Gringotts?"

"What makes you think it's a bank that he's writing to?" George asked with a grin.

"Oh, George, surely not. He's awfully young for that," their mother waved the thought away.

"I dunno, mum," Fred came to his twin's defense. "There are a lot of girls up at Hogwarts that would like to catch a young Seeker's eye. One of them might've done it."

Ginny didn't look like she quite knew what to do with this information.

"And he has been in that room a lot since he got here," George pressed his point.

"Not any more than Percy and he certainly doesn't have–," their mother stopped and seemed to review everything that had happened since she'd picked them up from the Hogwarts Express almost two months ago.

With a _clang_ the dishes were left to lie in the sink as the middle aged housewife with a mission made her way upstairs.

"Percy?" their mother called. "Percy, what have you been doing up here all by yourself?"

Ron got a sinking feeling in his stomach, his joy from earlier completely deflated. He knew for a fact that there was at least one girl who wanted to catch Harry's eye, and probably one girl he'd let himself be caught by if she so much as said a word. The fact that they were the same person didn't please him in the slightest.

Following his mother's example, he got up to find out what exactly was going on upstairs.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** As you all should be aware by now, the narrator of this story is always going to skew things in the direction of whoever it is that I'm following at the time. Any far–fetched comparisons to animals should not be taken as a sign of natural animagi abilities.

Judging from the reviews, the people who get it, get it, and appreciate this for what it is. As Robst said, "In the end – the only person who needs to be happy with the story is you." Personally, I'm happy with this story and its slow pace and glad that some of you like it. I hope you all stick around and leave a review.

Thanks for reading.


	10. There, There

.o0O0o.

Harry lay on his bed in his recently acquired room staring up at the ceiling with a grin on his face so big it was starting to hurt a bit. He didn't think he'd be getting rid of it anytime soon, even if he had wanted to. How could he have ever thought that today had gone so torturously slow? It had flown by really; trying and failing to keep his mind on studying, losing a couple games of chess, lunch he had barely even picked at, a game of Quidditch and poof! Hedwig was back.

And really, how could he have doubted for a moment what was going to happen? Ever since Dobby had appeared in his bedroom his life had just gotten better and better and now he was soaring so high he was looking down on the moon. _'Had it really not even been a week yet?'_ Harry thought to himself.

The image of what the little elf's life had probably been like during this time had the grin begin to slide off his face. He'd have to send a letter to Lichfield and see how the hunt for Dobby was going. It was Thursday, and if he hadn't been so distracted he would've realized that he hadn't heard a word from the old man since he had left Gringotts on Saturday.

Harry knew that Lichfield would sort it out. He didn't seem the type to let a little thing like not knowing anything about the people he was trying to find stand in his way of getting the job done. Still, giving the gnarled old wizard a poke in the side wouldn't hurt.

These thoughts were way too serious for Harry at the moment so he reread the letter that had given him the smile in the first place. It didn't take long, there was only one word: _YES! _

That had his smile back in place.

A short, quick _knock!_ was all the warning he had before the door opened and a streak of red hair stormed in. Harry reflexively balled his hand around the tiny scrap of parchment as Ron came up short in mid–stampede when he saw that the desk was unoccupied.

"Harry, you in here?" his friend asked.

"Yeah," Harry answered, sitting up on the bed behind Ron and drawing his attention to him.

The voice of Mrs. Weasley chided from somewhere below them, "I insist you open this door and tell me what's going on! I'll blast the door–!"

"Why, what's going on?" Harry asked as he shut the door to block out the noise.

"I should be asking you that," his friend declared as if some great crime had been committed against him. "What is going on?"

"Oh, the game!" Harry exclaimed, his brain finally catching up. "How'd we do?"

"Lost spectacularly. Thanks for noticing that we were supposed to be playing," Ron said sarcastically. "What have you been doing in here that could have you throw your brain out the window when it comes to Quidditch?"

"Well–," Harry said, moving to flatten his unruly mop of hair with his closed fist before quickly changing direction to covertly stuff the note between him and the mattress, hoping his friend took the movement as some sort of shrug. "I've just have a lot of stuff on my mind," he said evasively. "You know I can't tell you everything that's going on."

"So it's just a bunch of stuff with Gringotts then?" Ron said uncertainly. "And what's with all the studying? You're supposed to be on my side against those bookish people."

"That's part of it," Harry evaded again. Since he had vaguely mentioned the issues in his letters it wasn't precisely a lie. It was just a part of what he was doing that was so small it about the size of an atom. If Ron thought it was bigger than that–

"And there's nothing wrong with being one of those _bookish _people, Ron," he said defensively, hoping he could find a way to angle the conversation away from their other best friend. "There's a lot to learn."

"And we've got plenty of time," his friend pressed.

"You have plenty of time," Harry said. "But for me it's different. If you want to know something you can just ask your mum or dad, or even your brothers, but for me it's just me."

"You could ask them too," Ron said stubbornly.

"Yeah, but I can't rely on them forever–," Harry tried to explain.

"Well, why not?" his friend cut in. "What's wrong with my family?"

"Nothing, Ron, they're great," Harry said honestly. "But they're not mine. I'm not going to have your mum and dad looking over my shoulder my whole life just in case I have a question. If I'm going to do something then I'm going to have to do it on my own."

"You've got me," Ron said.

"Now, sure," Harry explained. "What about in ten years when you're off looking after Norbert with Charlie, or off in Egypt with Bill? We'll still be friends, but you could be off selling broomsticks in Timbuctoo for all we know. Who am I going to ask then?"

The stubborn look on Ron's face faded as he thought about what Harry said.

"I hadn't thought about that," he admitted as he moved to sit down on the edge of the desk.

Butterflies formed in Harry's stomach and started fluttering around as he remembered that he had stashed all of Hermione's letters in the desk drawer directly below where Ron sat.

"Imagine what it'd be like if you suddenly had to go and live in the muggle world," Harry suggested, continuing to talk to try and keep his attention away from the letters.

"You mean like if I were a Squib?" Ron asked, perplexed.

"A what?"

"A Squib; a person with magical parents that can't do magic," Ron explained. "I told you about mum's cousin that's an accountant or something, didn't I?"

"Oh," Harry said, at a loss for words. "I just thought he liked math." He shook himself out of that reverie. "Okay, say you're a Squib and you have to go live in the muggle world. But when you get there you realize that you don't know _anything_. Not how they dress, what they eat, how they move about, not how the lights work–."

"Isn't that all done with ecklestricity?" Ron asked, looking somewhat scared.

"E–lec–_tris_–i–tee," Harry corrected him. "And no, there's a bunch of different stuff they use. You could use electricity to power a stove to help you cook, or it could use a fire in there that's powered by gas, which is not to be confused with gasoline – which muggles use in their car to make it go, which is also called gas, or petrol. And then there's diesel for the really big trucks–"

"That's just confusing," Ron said dumbfoundedly. "Are you making all that up?"

"Nope," Harry replied. "Every bit of that's true. And that's just the beginning. I haven't even mentioned what school is like, what subjects there are, different jobs you can get once you graduate – how are you going to make money if you don't know what you're good at?"

"Blimey," Ron said, looking in horror at the future. "I'm gonna be hopeless. I don't know _any_ of that stuff."

"You're gonna be fine, Ron," Harry chuckled. "You're a wizard, remember? You're not going to live there."

"Wha–? Oh, right," Ron blushed. "How did you even learn all that?"

Harry shrugged. "I grew up there and you pick it up as you go. You probably know more about the magical world then I'll learn in seven years at Hogwarts, and you've got your family to fall back on."

"I never thought of it like that," Ron admitted, shaking his head. "Maybe you do have a lot to learn." Suddenly he scoffed at something. "Fred and George had this ridiculous idea–"

"–Well, they are Fred and George," Harry said.

"Yeah, but this one was really far out there," he explained. "They thought you might be up here writing to some girl."

Harry could have groaned. After all his hard work at confusing Ron he was going to be exposed by Fred and George. Now that there was something they could pick on him about there was no way they were going to let up on the idea. They had tried to have a go at him the first few days he was here by coming in and fainting on his bed whenever he looked at them, at least until he had turned it around and asked them if he should leave so they could have the room. Harry didn't know how he was going to get out of this one.

_'If they're going to pick on you_,' the Harold part of him said. _'Then they might as well pick on you for something you have done rather than something they think you've done_.' It had been the first time that Harold part had said anything since it had told him to ask Hermione out a few days ago, and that had worked out well so far.

_'Yeah_,' the Harry part of him agreed. _'If you hide it now they'll make fun of you for the idea and then make fun of you some more when the truth comes out_.' He would just have to grit his teeth and do it.

"Actually, Ron," he said embarrassed. "I kinda have."

"What? Who?"

"You know who, Ron," Harry said, remembering what Hermione had told him in that first letter. "It's Hermione."

"Oh, her. That's nothing then," Ron said with a wave. "You've never looked at her twice."

"I asked her to go out with me," he countered.

"And why didn't you tell me?" Ron asked, the stubborn look returning to his face.

"Why didn't you tell me she liked me?" Harry shot back and it looked to him like it scored a direct hit to the gut.

"Oh," a somber–looking Ron said, the pink coloring coming back into his cheeks. "She told you about that."

"Well, yeah, it kind of came up," he said. "That's why I didn't tell you I was writing to her in the first place. I knew you didn't really like her that much."

"Who said I didn't like her?" Ron demanded.

"You did. You kept calling her mental and said she was nosy."

"Well, she was being nosy," Ron defended himself. "She thought I had you hidden under my bed or something."

"Oh, right." Harry had forgotten about that part.

"Is that the real reason you're doing all this?" Ron asked, gesturing to the books on Harry's desk. "I'm starting to think she's a bad influence on you."

"I happen to think she's a good influence on me," Harry said defensively. "But I'd be studying either way, Ron. Everything I said before was true. Hermione and I both have a lot to learn if we're going to make it in the wizarding world."

Ron still didn't look too happy. Harry didn't get it. Why was he being so resistant to the idea that he and Hermione might get along on some deeper level? It wasn't as if–

Suddenly everything clicked into place. He had never asked Hermione about the awkward conversation with Ron that she had mentioned in her first letter. With everything else going on there was simply so much to talk about that he had just forgotten about it. But now – It was a possibility that he hadn't even thought about before, not one he'd think even remotely possible in a thousand years.

"You don't, er – like Hermione, do you?" Harry asked.

"I just said I don't dislike her," Ron said.

"No, I mean, you don't _like her_ like her, do you?" he clarified.

Ron's ears suddenly became so red they threatened to burst into flame.

"Y– N– It's–," his best mate stammered. "Well, I don't know!" Ron looked like he deeply regretted ever coming through the door.

"How do you _not know_?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

"It's jus–," Ron floundered, looking for something to say. _"I dunno_. I mean, she's a _girl_, and she's _there_–," he kind of petered out, as if realizing that he didn't have anything else to go on.

_'That's it?_' Harry marveled at the situation. _'The _hundreds_ of reasons to like Hermione boiled down to: She's a girl and she was _there_?'_ What about how she runs off the Library when she just has to know something? Or the way she goes 'OH MY GOD!' in her letters? And that little –smile– she includes when she's being a little flirty and how it makes him want to see what it looks like in person? There was so much more to Hermione than just _being there_.

"It's not like any other girl talks to us. And, I don't know," Ron said, finally grasping at straws. "She screams like mad when it comes to Quidditch."

Harry thought he knew why Hermione hadn't brought this up either, this was getting awkward.

"You didn't – you know – tell her you liked her, did you?" he asked Ron.

If Harry had thought this was awkward before, the look on Ron's face made it ten times worse.

"Well what was I _supposed_ to do?" Ron asked. "I mean, there she was going on about her _friend_ and how much she _liked_ him. You'd been up in the hospital wing for days and I was _right there_. What was I supposed to think?"

And with that the lights turned on in Harry's head and the whole thing turned around.

"So you thought that Hermione was trying to ask you out," Harry clarified.

"Well, _yeah_. Wouldn't you?" Ron asked. "I mean, growing up, we all knew that muggles did things backwards, so why not this?"

"So you said that you liked her because you thought that she was saying that she liked you," Harry summed up.

"Exactly!" Ron agreed.

"And then she said that it wasn't about you at all," Harry burst his bubble by taking the next logical step.

A shadow passed across Ron's face.

"Yeah," Ron said sourly. "It was a lousy thing to do."

"So you didn't tell me because?" Harry prompted, trying to keep his irritation at his best mate under control.

"Because I wanted to get back at her!" Ron explained. "It was a dirty rotten trick; she deserved to pay for what she did."

"She didn't mean to trick you, Ron," Harry said, his insides warring between being angry on Hermione's behalf and actually seeing it from Ron's point of view. "She probably didn't even know that you'd take it that way."

"How could she _not know?"_ Ron asked in an absurd mockery of his own question from earlier.

"Because she's a muggleborn," Harry said, finally seeing a way out and hoping the muggleborn thing could finally be a _good_ thing for once. "You said yourself that muggles do everything backwards, how could she be expected to know what a wizard would think about something like that?"

Harry waited with bated breath as his best mate seemed to give that thought his full attention and he swore on his potentially–Slytherin grandparents that if everything somehow worked out with his two best friends that he'd never say anything bad about Slytherins again. _'Except for Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle_,' he added to himself. _'And all those other idiots like them. And Snape; definitely Snape_.' The potions master had earned his spot as pride of place on his list of detestable Slytherins.

"I didn't think of it like that," Ron said finally. "You two are just so good at everything that it's hard to think of you as muggleborns. Or, I don't really know what to call you," Ron said scratching his head, "not a wizard–born, that's a Squib."

"Muggle–_raised_?" Harry offered.

"That works," his friend nodded. "You two could probably write a book about all this stuff._ 'Harry Potter's Muggle–Raised Guide to All Things Muggle._' Nuts like my dad would buy out the whole printing."

"Don't say that to Hermione," Harry chuckled, "or she might actually do it."

"Yeah," Ron smiled. "That's one mad _girlfriend_ you got there, Harry."

Harry smiled. Even once her answer arrived he had never thought of her as that. The fact that it was a smiling Ron who dubbed her that seemed to make it official.

"Oh, and um–," a rather chagrined Ron said. "Sorry for not telling you. It really didn't have anything to do with you. Well, that did, but not – you know."

"I know, Ron," Harry smiled, feeling a huge weight lift off his shoulders. Maybe things would turn out alright after all. "I'm sure Hermione will apologize when it's explained to her."

"Yeah," Ron scoffed. "And then Snape will ask for your autograph."

A pair of quick knocks had his door open again and see a smiling Fred and George enter.

_'Oh great_,' Harry thought miserably. _'Why did it have to start now?_'

"What are you two grinning at?" Ron asked.

"It's Percy–," George said, smiling like Christmas had come early.

"–He's got himself a _girlfriend_." Fred said, reveling in the reveal.

"He can join the club then," Ron said. "Harry's got one too!"

Dinner that night was a lively affair. It wasn't a party, but it certainly felt that way. With Percy's big secret out of the bag, most of the attention was focused on him, and of course this mysterious Penelope. Aside from a few congratulations, and pats on the back from the twins, Harry was largely forgotten. He found it odd to be in anyone's shadow, especially Percy's, but it was a feeling he'd be glad to get used to. At least then it would mean that he was just being treated like a normal person.

Besides the occasional barbs from his brothers, it was left to Percy to do most of the talking; he had to be constantly prompted by his mother though or he'd stop. Mrs. Weasley wanted to know everything about Ms. Penelope Clearwater: who she was, where she was from, how they met, what her parents did; the works. It was a point in her favor that she was a fellow Prefect, even if she was a Ravenclaw.

"So when are you two seeing each other? Have anything planned?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Um–," Percy didn't seem to have an answer.

"What about you, Harry, and this girl of yours?" she inquired.

"Yeah, who is it anyway?" Fred asked.

"It's that Japanese bird in your year isn't it?" George asked.

"That one's Chinese and a year up," Fred corrected him. "Name's Ching, I think. Jo Ching?"

"Hey," his brother defended, "I don't care who she is; all I know is that she's been eyeing him since he got made Seeker last year."

Harry sat there getting more embarrassed by the moment. He didn't know what he was expecting once the spotlight finally hit him, but this certainly wasn't it. How many girls _had_ he been oblivious to last year?

"Are you two mental?" Ron asked. "It's Hermione."

Ginny seemed to sink into herself.

"You know," George said to his twin. "We should've bet on that. I never thought Harry'd have the guts to approach her."

Fred nodded. "She's way too scary for me, and we grew up with mum."

His mother shot him a look that promised harsh treatment should he ever find a girl he liked.

"She probably approached him," Ron said wisely. "Muggles do things backwards."

"Yeah? How do muggles do it?" Fred asked Harry.

"George! That's not appropriate," Mrs. Weasley chided.

"I only asked–," the boy tried to defend himself.

"I know what you asked, and I know what you _meant_."

"Then why'd you yell at me for?" the other twin asked affronted. "Fred said it. If you want to get onto me, do it for what I say." Then to Harry George shot a quick, "So how do muggles do it anyway?"

"Both of you, up to your room, _now!_" Mrs. Weasley commanded in a tone that left even her husband looking like he'd be glad to leave too.

Fred and George wisely retreated to the soothing explosions that always seemed to come from their lair as Mrs. Weasley tried to calm herself.

"Since you mention it," Harry said while fighting a blush once the twins were out of earshot. "Hermione did mention wanting to meet up at Diagon Alley the Wednesday after we get our letters."

Mrs. Weasley looked to her husband.

"It should be this weekend," Mr. Weasley said looking glad he could be helpful. "Dumbledore should be back by then."

"Oh, wonderful," Mrs. Weasley beamed. "That'll give you two a chance to walk about with Percy and this Penelope," she said to Harry. "You look after him, Percy, I'll keep the others occupied so they don't embarrass you two."

Now it was Percy's turn to look embarrassed though he tried to cover it by eating. Ginny seemed to sink even lower until she threatened to sink under the table completely. Ron seemed to be the only one take this all as a matter of course.

"Dumbledore's been gone?" Harry asked, trying to appear only mildly curious about what the old man's been up to.

"A very busy man for someone his age," Mrs. Weasley said disapprovingly. "I would've thought he'd settle down to a nice quiet life when Arthur and I left school. Goodness knows he deserves it," she explained. "Then, of course, came all that You–Know–Who business, and a string of incompetent Ministers," she shook her head. "The poor man hasn't had a break in decades. Such a shame."

"He's been in Geneva for most of the week chairing the latest meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards," Mr. Weasley said in an aside to Harry.

"Well, it was a great meal, as always, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said as he excused himself from the table. In no time at all he was back in his room, back on his bed, and back to staring up at the ceiling trying to figure out what he was going to do.

Harry felt the stirrings of a kind of nervousness that he'd never felt before, and it had nothing to do with the chance to see Hermione just days from now. Dumbledore was coming back. It had been a kind of happy thought in the back of his mind for the last several days that with whatever was going on at Gringotts and all their plans that Dumbledore either didn't seem to notice or simply didn't care and that was why he hadn't heard anything from them.

With the headmaster out of the country, the lack of any money from his account and nothing from Gropegold would probably be impossible to ignore. Dumbledore would come for him, of that he had no doubt. His letter to Lichfield suddenly seemed all the more important. He'd definitely need as much protection as Gringotts could offer. An entire goblin army guarding the Burrow would only slightly lessen the anxiety he was starting to feel.

With the way Gringotts had been so far though Harry could already hear Barchoke's voice saying no._ 'We're a _bank_, not Goblin Armies Я Us._' That idea was going to go nowhere, even if he asked. That only left one thing he could do: run and hide.

_'Where?_' that Harold part of him asked. _'In a cupboard under the stairs? If Hagrid could find you last year then Dumbledore could find you now. You can't run_.'

Harry knew he was starting to panic, but when you're facing down Dumbledore, who wouldn't? Even Lord Voldemort was afraid of Dumbledore. He doubted the Weasleys would be much of a shield if it came down to it, and really, how much protection could a rental agreement with people he hardly even knew, that wasn't even signed, and he didn't even have yet provide against a wizard that had beaten one Dark Lord so badly that the next one to come along wouldn't even go up against him?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the plan Barchoke had sketched out on their way to see Hammerhand. Lichfield would draw up a rental agreement with the Weasleys and get it to him in plenty of time so that he could convince them it was for real. The fact that it wasn't here yet was troubling, but maybe he was just being thorough. All Harry had really needed to do was find something that the Weasleys wanted that he could offer in return, and that was supposed to have been an easy thing to do.

While Ron had always had his family come across as _poor_ in his whinging, what Harry hadn't expected was for them to be so happy being poor. Ron's grousing about it seemed the extent of their hardship, so he really didn't think they'd even consider taking money for something they were already letting him have for free.

But once he got that agreement signed and sealed, the Ministry would have to recognize it. They had always recognized contracts sealed with blood and magic, it was one of the bedrocks of their society, or so Barchoke had said. If Dumbledore wanted to stop it because he was his "guardian" and Harry was underage, then the whole abandonment thing would get dragged into court because of it. If Dumbledore tried to remove him by force, then Lichfield would get the Ministry involved and the whole abandonment thing would get dragged into court because of it.

If Dumbledore showed up before the agreement was signed, then he'd probably be toast. His kind old grandfather routine would probably have him Dumbledore his way through the Weasleys and get them to give him to him, or at least send him home. After that, who knew what would happen to him, or even if he'd ever be seen again?

Harry heard a slight rustling of wings and felt a weight settle on his chest. He opened his eyes to see Hedwig staring down at him. It had been the longest he'd been in the room without writing a letter, reading a letter, sending a letter, sleeping or studying so she was probably wondering what he could possibly be doing.

He sent her off back to her usual perching place on top of the wardrobe and got up. That letter wasn't going to write itself. As he sent Hedwig off into the night he realized that he could've sent off another letter to Hermione; their conversation had just sort of stopped once there was the question to ask. As he saw Hedwig fade away Harry thought that it would probably be some time before he'd be able to concentrate on anything as pleasant as Hermione, at least until he could be sure that he'd be safe at the Burrow for a while longer.

.o0O0o.

The waxing gibbous hung happily in the sky as the man in the moon smiled down upon the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world and Albus Dumbledore smiled merrily back at him. It had been such a joyous week doing good works that not even his still–missing statements could get him down when he was surrounded by the warm glow of hearth and home that was the Three Broomsticks on a Friday evening. They were probably up at Hogwarts anyway so there was nothing to worry about.

The jaunt up from the village had been a spritely one; the grass was springy, the breeze cool and refreshing, and the stars twinkled down in their multitudes. He even paused a moment to wave to the Giant Squid that made its home in their highland loch. How the creature could possibly survive in such an environment, much less live so long, was still a complete mystery, even after a hundred years. But, Albus conceded, such was life.

Hagrid had a roaring fire going in front of his hut, bathing the grounds in its warm glow. More light spilled forth from the grand doors of the school which were open wide to welcome its beloved headmaster back home. The candles twinkled like the stars above in the great hall, torches now dim after the evening meal, and Albus thought he saw the slim slinking shadow of Severus Snape slip silently down to his dreary dungeon den. The teachers, the organs and tissues of the Hogwarts body, were returning at last and soon the school would be revived and ready to go for another year.

_'So much Good_,' Albus thought._ 'So much Good yet to be done_.'

This last week had seen a great deal of work for the Greater Good done, it was true. Almost single–handedly he had relegated the magical plague that was gnawing its way through central Africa to a conference for developing magical nations, giving that area a second chance to pull together in a pinch and form lasting bonds of friendship through shared adversity and loss.

Halting the relief efforts for the victims of a conflict with a band of Giants in eastern Turkey that had seen the deaths of almost 80 muggles earlier this year was also absolutely essential. Though he sympathized with their loss, the sad proposal had been connected to the authorization for the wizarding community there to root out their Giant population once and for all. But Giants deserved a second chance too after all. Hagrid himself had proven to him that all their burly brethren truly needed were nice warm hugs and a cup of cocoa and all would be well.

Handling the impassioned plea by the Bulgarian Minister for I.C.W. Peacekeepers to be sent into his country to stop the ongoing conflict there was his pride and joy though. The country finally had a symbol they could rally around in the form of a young Quidditch sensation named Viktor Krum. Albus wanted to give the magical peoples of his country a second chance to see the error of their ways on their own and come back into fellowship with each other and so shuffled the matter off to a relatively unimportant subcommittee for Southeastern European International Magical Cooperation for further study and review.

In the magnificent week he'd been in Geneva, absolutely nothing had been accomplished. The Greater Good would provide after all. Anything else would be to show doubt and sow division, grave offenses that made the Good feel sad.

Albus almost felt like dancing as he made his way to Professor McGonagall's office. Indeed he would have, but sadly that particular skill was one he lacked any talent in. When the jolly old man arrived at the Deputy Headmistress's office he found the door open and a kindly light shining forth.

He peeked in to see stacks of envelopes all around her desk as she shifted one envelope after another from pile to pile after a light tap of her wand. The warm glow in his chest grew with the knowledge that he hadn't missed the Mailing. Aside from the Welcoming Feast, it was his favorite time of the year.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall, everything going well I see," he said to his hard–on–the–outside–yet–creamy–in–the–center Head of Gryffindor House. Albus made the mental note to refresh his candy stores for the upcoming year sometime soon. It wouldn't do to run low on Lemon Drops, someone might actually want one this year.

"I trust everything worked out for the best in my absence?" he asked.

"Sadly no," she said wiping a tear from her eye.

"There, there, Minerva," Albus said coming around to put a comforting arm around his Deputy. "Whatever could be the matter?"

"It's the children, Albus. The Hopefuls," Minerva sniffed into a tartan handkerchief. "I fear Hogwarts must break its word to them. I didn't know whether to write them or visit them in person to explain but – just the thought on those poor children's faces when they learn that they won't be able to attend–."

The soft old Scot blew her nose in almost comedic fashion, and new tears made her eyes reflect the candlelight that lit the room, much like her feline animagus form did when on the prowl.

"Fear not," Albus said kindly. "I'll see what I can do."

_'Surely the money from Gringotts would have arrived by now_,' Albus thought. Perhaps it was something as simple as forgetting to sign one of the transfer orders. _'Even _I_ can make mistakes after all_.' He almost chuckled at the thought but knew it would do nothing to cheer his longtime work acquaintance. He would have to remember to have a good chuckle later.

If such an unlikely event _were_ to happen though it'd just be a matter of moments before the funds started flowing again. _'As fast as a Fawkesian flash_,' he thought.

"I do hope you have better luck than I did," McGonagall said. "I did what I could to fill your shoes when you were gone but could only scrounge up enough in donations to cover a year of tuition for a single student, and that's without providing any means of support for the supplies themselves."

"I don't suppose any mail came for me while I was gone?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"Just the normal Ministry owls," she said as she returned to her work.

A small tendril of worry started to burrow into his heart, leaching away the life and warmth within as his face showed concern for the first time. Could something be wrong at Gringotts? Not even the havoc caused by Tom's reign of terror had ever caused this kind of disruption in them issuing their monthly account statements. Perhaps he would have to pay them a visit, just to make sure.

With tap after tap of McGonagall's wand bright green ink appeared on envelope after envelope showing the name and current location of each recipient. Albus picked up one of the completed stacks and started leafing through them.

"Unless they decide to spend the night somewhere they weren't fifteen minutes ago those will still be right," she said as if wondering why he was still there.

"Of that I have no doubt," he said jovially. "Merely looking so I can recall their smiling faces."

"Their faces won't be smiling when Halloween rolls around and the Feast has to be cut," the Scotswoman said, back in her normally clipped tone. "And the teachers won't be smiling when salaries are slashed. Gilderoy Lockhart may try to quit if that happens, contract or no," she finished derisively.

His deputy never saw the Greater Good at work. How could it not be in everyone's interest to expose the man for the fraud he is? And what better way to do that then to place him in a position of power and authority over children eager to learn? That those children must first buy copies of every one of his books as reading material and sacrifice a year of their Defense education to give the incompetent man this chance to hang himself was simply the price that must be paid. Albus could not abide frauds.

At last Albus saw the name he sought amidst the group of Second Years and smiled as he saw the address. This had to be the Greater Good at work. Where there was a problem, the Greater Good always provided. If something was wrong at Gringotts, then Harry was the answer. How lucky it was that he was at the home of the Weasleys.

"You have the letters to the Hopefuls handy?" the kind old man asked, placing the Second Year Mailings back on the desk.

"Yes, they're right here," McGonagall said, handing him three thin envelopes. "I think I should visit them myself instead. It's the right thing to do," she said sadly.

"Give me a couple of days to see to them," he said softly as he pocketed the envelopes. "I'm sure something can be done. A few days may see a world of difference."

"Of course," Minerva said. "If you think that's best."

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world bid her goodnight and made his way up to his room, making sure to stop off by the Owlery along the way.

.o0O0o.

The fluttering sound of hundreds of wings filled the night sky as the massive stream of owls left Hogwarts for parts unknown. Tomorrow people the width and breadth of the country would wake up to their much anticipated Mailings. It would be like Christmas to them.

Up in his tower, Albus smiled. He had always loved the sight of all those owls winging their way off to all points beyond but it had been years since he had directly contributed to the yearly event. He had so hated to change things last year, but it was necessary. Today though it was different. Giving the owl on his arm one last stroke on the head he sent it off into the night with a thin letter of its own to deliver.

Where there was a need, the Greater Good provided, and everything worked itself out the way it was meant to be.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** When I started this, I wanted to do a Dumbledore that had never been seen before, or at least one I've never seen before. Taking his hands-off, everyone gets a second chance, and Greater Good ideologies to their furthest extremes the scene of his return to Hogwarts formed in my mind, with all the glowing depictions of how much Good he had done at the I.C.W. I must admit, the first thing out of my mouth when that happened was, "Holy crap, he's a monster." While a deeper philosophy on life and the workings of the universe has developed out of it, his actions certainly make him seem like a monster, even if he doesn't see it.

Thanks for reading.


	11. Surprise

**AN:** I like having a lot of development and world-building so I can really shake things up in a single chapter. A lot of stuff gets revealed so sit back and grab the popcorn.

.o0O0o.

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world sent the shopkeepers of Diagon Alley fleeing from their early breakfasts in the Leaky Cauldron in something approaching a panic. It had long been Albus's custom to watch the Alley suddenly spring to life like the desert after a rare rain so they all knew what his arrival meant. This was why the Mailings had always been sent out at the same time, and never announced. The surprise was the best part.

Albus had to admit that he did love this reaction though; it made him feel so important. To think that just his appearance so early in the morning so late in the summer could cause such a stir was almost enough to give one a big head. _'As if that would ever happen to someone like me,_' the kindly and ever so humble Dumbledore thought to himself.

"I'm sorry, Tom," he said as he smiled to the hunch-backed, gap-toothed barman. "I seem to have cost you all of your patrons."

"That's alrigh'," Tom replied merrily and started to clear the plates with a wave of his wand. "They already paid."

After considering it for a moment, the merry old man thought that as long as he was here it wouldn't hurt to have one of his few little indulgences.

"I don't suppose you happen to have Sticky Buns this morning, do you?" Albus asked.

"Only when I don't change me underwear," the barman quickly replied with his classic 'I got you' look on his face.

Albus had a good chuckle; the earthy barman's humor would never change.

"I'll bake some up fresh like," Tom said. "I take it today's the big day?"

"Oh yes. Today is a very big day," Albus said with more meaning than one in mind. He so loved wrapping everything up in one outing.

.o0O0o.

Lichfield stumbled as he was pushed out of the emerald flames. Catching himself on the rough wooden seats of the Leaky Cauldron, he felt a twinge in his hand as a splinter dug into his skin, adding extra flavor to his early morning grumble. That happened every time Lester tried to take a short cut and hop out of one of the Gringotts fires instead of his stated route but he couldn't help but check every once in a while.

As he drew his wand to extract the splinter he just knew that today was going to be a lousy day. Why the Ministry saw fit to restrict passage to and from Gringotts like they did, even for employees, he'd never know. It's not like they'd have an entire goblin army belch itself out of a fireplace, no matter how famous the kid who asked for one was.

How Legal could've lost that rental agreement after it took so long to write up, given the boy's particularly tricky legal standing, was enough to get his dander up. If it wasn't for the fact that Barchoke had wanted heads on pikes, leaving him to run interference since beheadings wouldn't be doing Harry any favors, he would have felt free to vent his spleen on the issue. The new one should be done sometime today and he'd finally be able to put that kid's mind to rest. Merlin knew the kid needed a chance to be a kid when he could have it. What he had learned of that kid's life was repellant.

The smell of Sticky Buns hung thick in the air causing his stomach to growl. His morning toast hadn't been enough after all. Maybe he'd call for Mipsy so she could make him a sandwich when he got to work. The elf would be so thrilled she'd probably be smiling and bouncing off the walls all day. He mentally corrected his schedule so he could stay late at work, leaving Mipsy free to go berserk in an overload of euphoric cleaning before he got back.

Lichfield wouldn't put it past her to fix his neighbor's large metal muggle contraption that he had broken last night when he had gotten home. If that boy didn't learn to stop blocking his stairway with that automocar there was going to be hell to pay.

"Ah, thank you, Tom. They smell wonderful."

The sound of a certain old man's voice drew the Litigator's eyes to him.

"I think I'll just take these at the little sitting area outside Florean's shop," the vicious old fraud said with a condescending smile. "Do you want me to send the plate back to you?"

Lester didn't stick around to hear any more of the old man's prattling, instead striding purposely towards the Alley proper._ 'Of course it just had to come down to an old man race_,' Lichfield thought to himself as he stole the better start and opened up a lead, leaving a string of muttered curses behind him like he was an automocar himself.

As he hit the alleyway he paused only a moment to shake his head at the brilliant green sign that now decorated the front of the shoemaker's shop. _'Come See Harry Potter's Shoes!'_ it proclaimed. That was sure to cause as much of a stir as that new broomstick at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Muttering about the anti-Apparition field that enshrined the Alley, Lichfield put one foot in front of the other as he made his way forward, each step coming faster than the one before. Before he was even two shops along Lichfield was running. No old man was going to out old man him because he was a grumpy old man, damn it, and he needed all hands on deck. He was going to need Mipsy after all.

.o0O0o.

Harry tossed and turned as the sun just started to peek above the horizon before he got up to pace again. The last day or so had not been so pleasant for him. It had basically been waiting for the hammer to fall and filling the time however he could.

He had quickly found that he couldn't keep his mind on studying without subjecting what he was looking at to the _'would this be any good against Dumbledore'_ test, which nothing seemed to be able to pass. Quidditch and chess had been victims of that too, though he made sure that his broom never left the side of his open bedroom window, just in case he had to make a mad dash for freedom.

Even writing to Hermione had been short-changed. When she wrote to inquire why she hadn't heard anything from him that day and ask if anything was wrong he had sent back a response that probably did more harm than good. Now that he thought about it, how exactly _was_ she supposed to handle a letter that said, _'Whatever's going to happen will happen soon. I may be able to tell you everything this weekend. I hope I can see you again'_ and not be worried? Though Hermione had said she understood she did close with: _'And don't you think for one minute that I'm not going mad with worry over here and won't demand every minute detail when you're able to explain_.'

After his sudden departure from supper the night before, a breakfast he had hardly picked at, and an hour spent staring off into the distance rather than watching Fred and George put Ron through some Keeper drills, Mrs. Weasley had finally stopped by to make sure everything was alright. That had almost had him spilling the beans about everything. The only reason he didn't was because that would've been a really sorry way to repay their hospitality that he had already felt bad for imposing upon.

The only person who looked gloomier than he did was Ginny. Harry didn't really know what was going on with the girl and he had given up even trying to care. While he could sympathize with not having any friends, since both he and Hermione had gone through something similar, this was something else and whatever it was it was starting to creep him out a bit.

He hoped that once school started both of them could simply disappear into their own little groups and not have to deal with each other until Christmas at least. Maybe by then she'll have made friends of her own and snapped out of it.

When he thought back on his week at the Burrow, he didn't particularly like what he saw. While he loved spending time getting to know Hermione, he had spent way too much time away from the family who had welcomed him in, and really hadn't done anything to show that he appreciated it. Helping to de-gnome the garden didn't really count in his mind since the little potato-headed creatures seemed to love it so much.

If this was going to be his last day at the Burrow, Harry didn't want to be remembered as this sullen little kid that had shown up unannounced, imposed on them from the first minute he was there, and didn't show any gratitude for being invited in the first place. He should do something for them, Harry decided. Having been unable to sleep at all last night may have had him see the sun rise, but it also had him up before anyone else, even Mrs. Weasley.

Harry smiled. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

.o0O0o.

Albus looked curiously at the handle that refused to move; the large bronze door would not budge, even trying his keys didn't work. He wondered what could possibly be going on, this was most inhospitable, even for goblins.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?" came a goblin voice from behind him.

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world turned to see a courteous goblin in a finely cut suit. Though it was somewhat odd to see any goblin aside from the occasional guard with a shaven head, the wizard in swirling purple robes with silver moons cast the eccentricity aside, goblins were an odd people.

"I seem to have found my way barred," Albus said sadly. "Perhaps you could help me through? I have business to attend to."

"Of course, there are additional security concerns to take care of first, however," the goblin said, gesturing to a nearby desk. "I take it that you haven't been here since the first of the month?"

"I've been away," Albus said nebulously as he followed the goblin and took the proffered seat near the desk. "I trust this will not take too much time? I have other business to be about."

"No, no," the goblin said pulling out a set of writing implements. "It should take no time at all. We just need to do a simple account and identity verification."

"Verification?" Albus asked curiously; surely everyone knew who he was. "Is all that really necessary?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Unfortunately, yes," the goblin explained. "There was a regrettable incident that left one of our most prestigious Financial Managers permanently unable to return to work and his accounts have had to be reassigned accordingly. These new measures are here for your protection and ensure account holder security. It would not do to for someone to access an account unlawfully during this rather sensitive time."

"Ah," Albus said jovially, "of course, of course. I can respect your commitment to your legal obligations, mister-?"

"Barchoke," the goblin smiled.

"-Mister Barchoke," Albus continued, "having written quite a few of our bylaws myself."

"It's really quite simple, Mr. Dumbledore," Mr. Barchoke said as he pointed to the quills. "This is a Blood Quill and this one's a Truth Quill. All we require is a quick scratch from one, a statement outlining where your authority to access the account in question comes from with the other, and your magical signature added at the end."

The kindly old man tried to hide his distaste at having to surrender his blood. He had never liked trafficking in blood, most unclean, if not bordering on Dark, no matter what anyone said. Indeed, many years ago he had had to outline the _acceptable_ uses of dragon's blood, lest the child-like masses be led astray by the power such a substance contained.

All that accomplished for his two accounts, Albus moved to stand.

"Just a moment, Mr. Dumbledore," Mr. Barchoke said, reviewing the vellum slips in front of him. "I'll need the Keys for the accounts for our verification process as well. And you have the Ministerial document that backs up this claim?" the goblin asked pointing to one part in particular.

"Ah, yes. I have them just here," Albus said as he reached into his robes.

The goblin seemed to tense for a moment and out of the corner of his eye he saw a set of scarlet and gold Gringotts guards begin to move.

.o0O0o.

Molly Weasley waited impatiently while her daughter got ready. She had seen her daughter change dramatically in the last week in ways she certainly didn't approve of. Ginny had gone from starry-eyed wonder just shy of outright devotion to just the idea of Harry Potter to distressed antipathy to the very real young man who had arrived before taking a detour through pining for what she had "lost" before "catching a case of the sullens" (as her own mother had called it) when it came out that the real Harry had already found himself a girlfriend.

It was well beyond time for them to sit down and hammer this out once and for all. Though she loved the home she and Arthur had made at the Burrow over the last twenty five years with all her heart there remained one real downside to it – now that the children were older there was always someone else around lingering about to the point where outside of the school year it was almost impossible to have time alone to have a private conversation without being overheard. This need for privacy was what had Molly dragging her young daughter out of bed before the sun was fully above the horizon.

"Come along," she chided as her daughter emerged with her bathrobe wrapped around her sleeping clothes. Where once the girl had worn it because it made her comfortable, it seemed like she wore it now out of some sense of mourning.

She led her downstairs to be further from the sleeping others and tried to come up with what to say. Only once had she ever seen such absolute foolishness in a girl before and there was no way that she was going to let her own daughter go down a road that would see her have to withdraw from Hogwarts before she had even taken her O.W.L.s because she had been found to be in the family way like that one had.

The girl had disappeared almost entirely after that, and the boy joined her soon afterwards. She saw them occasionally in Diagon Alley but never acknowledged ever knowing her. She was not going to let that happen to her daughter. Red hair was the closest any Weasley would ever come to being a Scarlet Woman. This was going to be taken care of one way or another.

.o0O0o.

It had taken Harry some time to figure out how to turn on a magical stove and even longer to find where Mrs. Weasley kept the food. In the end he had to resort to poking things with his wand. He didn't think that counted as magic though, or at least not something Mrs. Weasley would get mad at him for, considering that he was doing this for her.

He was already well into cooking breakfast when he heard it, a soft_ pop!_ behind him and turned to see what it was.

"Mister Hairy Pots-sir?" a curious little elf with big brown eyes asked. It was carrying a large bundle of papers and Harry thought it was female.

"Er – Hello," Harry greeted the elf, cautiously wondering if this visit by an elf would be just as interesting as the last one was.

"Mister Lichy says that yous be needing this," the little elf said, offering the bundle of papers to him.

_'The rental agreement!'_ the Harry part of him cried and threatened to make him break out in a celebratory jig. He tried to keep his eager anticipation under wraps but couldn't help but to give a relieved smile.

"Thank you, um–"

"I be Mipsy, sir," the elf answered his unasked question.

"Well thank you very much, Mipsy," Harry smiled. "And thank Lichfield for me too, will you?"

Mipsy beamed and gave him a cute little curtsey, as if the repurposed striped pillowcase she was wearing were some sort of dress.

"Oh!" she cried, her big eyes bulging. "Mister Lichy say yous be needing this," she said as she reached down the neck hole into her makeshift dress and pulled out a scrap of parchment to hand to him.

"Bye, Mister Hairy Pots-sir!" she said with a wave before she disappeared with a_ pop!_

_'A little strange_,' Harry thought to himself. _'But _nobody_ beats Dobby_.'

Harry looked at the scrap of parchment and a lead weight settled in his stomach. All it said was_ 'NOW!'_ He felt cold as he realized what that could only mean one thing: Dumbledore was on the move and he'd be here _soon_.

Lichfield was certainly cutting it very thin. Harry could only hope that he could talk his way into getting the Weasleys to sign before the headmaster got here and that Lichfield was as good at delaying people as he was at delaying deliveries.

The bacon started to sizzle on the stove as he heard someone on the stairs. Harry stashed the rental agreement into a nearby drawer full of odds and ends until the time was right.

"Ginny, I just don't know what's going on inside that head of yours," Mrs. Weasley said. "First you're ready to follow him into matrimony, and then you say you don't care, and now you sulk around all day. Do you suddenly want him again or do you just don't want anyone else to have him just in case you change your mind later?" There was a slight pause before she continued, "Do you smell bacon?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," he called from the kitchen. Short quick steps sounded on the stairs as Mrs. Weasley looked curiously into the room.

"Harry? What on earth are you doing?" she asked as if puzzled why any man would be in a kitchen, much less hers. "If you were hungry I could have made you something."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Weasley, this is for you," Harry said as he fixed her a plate. "You've made me feel so much at home this last week that I wanted to show my appreciation."

He set the set the simple meal of eggs, toast, and bacon down on the kitchen table along with a glass of milk before pulling the seat out for her. She looked at him with her mouth partially open, as if she had never seen such a mind-boggling thing in her entire life.

"Mrs. Weasley?" he said when she didn't move.

"Oh, um – Thank you," the kind woman said as she uncertainly took her seat. "You have to be the most curiously kind boy I've ever met. Hermione's lucky to have you."

He ran his hand through his hair embarrassed.

"Mmm!" Mrs. Weasley said in non-syllabic praise as she seemed to relish the rare moment of private pampering. "Harry, if I could I'd keep you."

This was his moment.

"Actually, Mrs. Weasley-," he began.

"Oh, please, Harry," she said as she dug in to the toast. "After a meal like this you can call me Molly."

"Er – right, er – Molly," Harry tried to continue, edging his way back to the drawer. "About what you said-"

With the worst of all possible timing a strange owl thought that that particular moment was the perfect time to land on the windowsill and tap for entrance.

"Oh, that'll be your Hogwarts letters," Molly said as she left the table to open the window. "Boys! Ginny! Wake up and come get your letters!" she cried upstairs before carrying her plate to the kitchen to snack on as she began puttering around to make breakfast for the gang of Weasley children that would soon groggily make their way downstairs.

_'The perfect moment come and gone_,' Harry thought as Ginny tried to slink into the dining room unnoticed. How was he supposed to bring it up in front of everyone _now_ without seeming rude or ungrateful for what they'd already done? He began to feel the beginnings of a nervous flutter jumbling around in his stomach.

"Will you look at this?" the twin he thought was Fred said as the quartet of brothers entered. "Either we've gotten slower-"

"-Or Mum's gotten so fast she can feed herself while cooking for everyone else," the other twin finished for him.

"Nonsense, dears," Molly said as she slapped Ron's hand away from her eggs. "Harry made this for me."

The boys looked to him in disbelief.

"No matter what you do-," George said seriously.

"-We're never gonna call you 'Dad.'" Fred finished for him.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle, which had a pleasantly soothing effect on his nerves.

There came another _pop!_ from outside before Mr. Weasley's voice cried out as he entered.

"Morning, Weasleys!" he said and the assembled Weasley clan answered in kind as Percy started to hand out the Hogwarts letters as everyone found their seats.

"Looks like they sent us Harry's as well," Percy said, passing Harry his specially addressed envelope as the owl took off again. He had never noticed how the green ink looked so much like one of Snape's poisons.

"Dumbledore must know you're here, Harry," Mr. Weasley said cheerfully. "Doesn't miss a trick, that man."

_'Why did he have to say that?'_ Harry mentally moaned as his nervousness jumped up by several notches. He decided to look on with Ron as he read his letter, just in case his letter had been enchanted to attack him or something.

Ron immediately flipped over to the Second Year reading list; probably to see how much trouble he'd be in for that year. There was _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ by Miranda Goshawk, which Hermione had already been studying away on for the past month, and then seven books by Gilderoy Lockhart.

This had to have been the same Lockhart that Cadogan and Lichfield had spoken so poorly of, though he didn't voice any of those concerns to Mrs. W-Molly yesterday when she had been gushing about his advice from the pest control book she had. He had tried to look through that himself later that day but it basically seemed to be a glowing review of how good he was at dealing with everything and a bunch of nonsensical words he tried to pass off as spells, none of which had worked for him. With seven books it was sort of lucky that the man had only used the Blood Quill to sign the contract and not write the whole book or he wouldn't have any blood left.

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Ron's.

"You've been told to get all of Lockhart's books too!" he said. "The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan – bet it's a witch." He then caught his mother's eye and busied himself with his letter again.

"That lot won't come cheap," George said with a quick look to his parents. "Lockhart's books are really expensive."

"Well, we'll manage," Molly said though she looked worried.

Perhaps this was something he could offer in exchange for them signing the agreement? Buying everyone a load of expensive books seemed a reasonable trade to him.

"I expect we'll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny's things secondhand," Molly continued.

It was only then that anyone noticed something wrong; Ginny was trying to covertly look around as if she suspected one of her brothers of hiding something from her. She didn't have an envelope.

As Harry was about to voice his concern another owl swooped in to land on the table. It carried a single letter; Ginny looked relieved. George got to it first and looked concerned; he had noticed the absence of her letter too.

"Mum," he said quietly as he passed it over. "It's for you and Dad."

There a moment of silence as the husband and wife read the short letter. As the only outsider there Harry got the sense that he was intruding on someone's funeral.

"It's from McGonagall," Molly said. "The money for the Hopefuls program hasn't come through. They say they can't give out any scholarships at all this year. Arthur?" At a loss she looked to her husband. He seemed lost as well.

With a sob, little Ginny ran from the table and up to her room.

"George, will you-?" his mother asked. The boy was already moving towards the stairs before she had even finished the question.

Harry felt horrible. The Hogwarts Hopefuls hadn't been something to help _graduating_ students find jobs, like Barchoke had thought, it was to help _kids_ who could only hope to go to Hogwarts in the first place. That day at Gringotts he had never even thought about what stopping that transfer could mean for the lives of other people. It was one thing to make older people look after themselves and something else entirely to take an opportunity away from a kid, even if it was Ginny.

He tried to tell himself that the whole thing was Dumbledore's fault for stealing the money in the first place, that the old man hadn't cared if Harry had everything from his parents drained away before he knew it was even there so he shouldn't care what it took to get everything back, but that just wasn't something he was able to do.

"We don't need a set of books each," Fred told his parents in an unusually serious tone. "We've still got Bill and Charlie's old books. And if we could pry this year's out of Percy's hands-"

"-They're yours," his prefect brother quickly agreed.

"-Then George and I can share," he continued. "One set of Lockhart books could do for all of us, for all the good they'll probably do us."

"I'm sure Bill and Charlie would help us a bit," Mr. Weasley said uncertainly. "And if anything could get Aunt Muriel to help-"

"That old crone would blame us, Arthur," Molly said. "And we can't ask our children to pay for this."

"I could pay for it," Harry said drawing all the Weasleys' eyes to him.

"Thank you, Harry," Molly said when she was able to speak again. "But we can't ask you to pay for it either."

"I can pay for it," he pressed, "because I was going to be paying for it originally anyway."

The Weasleys looked confused; Harry took a breath before continuing.

"I – I said last week that someone had been stealing from me," Harry chose to look only to Molly since she had been the one to stand up for his privacy back then. "Well, they weren't just stealing money," he explained. "They were giving it away too. One of the things they gave to was called the Hogwarts Hopefuls; it looked like they had been doing it for years. We didn't know what it was," Harry said quickly. "Nobody at Gringotts had even heard of it, so we stopped it," he shrugged.

"I never thought I'd know someone who needed it," Harry finished weakly. If Dumbledore had come to collect him right then, he didn't know if he'd even bother to put up a struggle.

"So first you take her money," Ron said rising. "And then you want to be a hero and give it back? Some friend you are, Harry," he said sourly as he stormed off to his room.

"It wasn't her money, Ron, it was his," Fred called after him.

"Fred, Percy could you-," Molly started before Fred interrupted.

"-Let the git stew," he said as he pulled Percy back to his seat when he had numbly moved to rise.

"You'll have to forgive Ron, he's-he's just concerned for his sister," Molly said to Harry.

"And a git," Fred stared mutinously at above him.

Harry took it as a sign of the seriousness of the conversation that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley let the comment stand.

"Ginny wouldn't have wanted the scholarship if she knew the money had been stolen, Harry," Molly said. "None of the family would have."

"What?" Harry asked confused.

"Half the family's benefited from the Hopefuls program," Mr. Weasley said explained. "Really, all of us have. Bill, Charlie, and Percy are all Hopefuls-" he said as Percy stared numbly into space. "And it was only by saving up for all those years that we've been able to send Fred, George, and Ron to Hogwarts. We may not have much, but we pay our way when we can."

Strangely enough, that did make Harry feel better.

"I'd still like to help," Harry said. "You'll be doing me a favor, actually." He went on when they looked at him curiously. "The person who stole from me was only able to do it because they claim to be my guardian."

"You mean those muggles you live with?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"No, this is someone in the wizarding world," Harry explained. "He abandoned me with the Dursleys a long time ago. They would've had the account cleaned out in a single day and dumped me at an orphanage if they had known."

"You know who this person is?" Fred asked.

"Yes, that's why I need your help in staying away from them," Harry said to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "I need a place I can stay, at least until my next birthday."

"You can stay here as long as you need, Harry. You know that," Molly said.

"Thanks, but I really need to pay," Harry explained. "My litigator said that it would really help us out. Actually," he got up and retrieved the rental agreement from the drawer, "He sent this over today. I just didn't know of anything I could offer you in exchange for letting me rent a room and I didn't think you'd take money for it."

Molly looked down at the agreement for a while before turning to her husband.

"Arthur?"

Mr. Weasley looked thoughtful.

"With Bill and Charlie gone, taking on a renter does make sense," Mr. Weasley said. "And his stuff is already here. Paying for Hogwarts entirely is out of the question, but paying for the year – if you think of it as a lump sum payment rather than paying month-to-month, it's actually much more reasonable."

"But Arthur, we couldn't charge-," Molly protested.

"We'd both be benefiting," Harry said. "And I for one would consider it well worth the price to be able to call this place my home."

Molly smiled and gave him a pat on the hand.

"What do we need to do?" she asked.

It was with great relief that Harry ran past George coming downstairs as he made his way up to his room to fetch his Blood Quill, though he did have to double back for a regular quill and ink. He had no intention of pulling a Lockhart and signing the whole thing in blood, and didn't think the Weasleys would either. He got back in time to hear the end of George's report on Ginny.

"That'll make her feel better," George said. "The Harry thing might be a bit – Oh, hey Harry, or should we call you Roomie now?"

"Just Harry will be fine," he answered.

Fortunately, while it may have taken forever for it to arrive, it appeared the rental agreement was charmed to walk them through the process. It even outlined the section for them to fill in what way, or how much, Harry was going to pay in return and where they all needed to sign. The twins looked at him in askance when he pulled out his wand, but seemed to accept contracts being an exception to the 'no magic outside of school' rule when he explained it.

A huge weight lifted off his shoulders when it was done, so much so that he felt a little lightheaded. With a _pop!_ the house-elf from before reappeared with a bright smile and her arms held out like she wanted a hug.

"Oh, Merlin!" Molly said with a hand to her heart. She obviously hadn't been expecting such a sudden visitor.

"Er – Are you here for this, Mipsy?" Harry asked, holding up the agreement.

"Oh! Yes, Mister Hairy Pots-sir," she said embarrassedly.

"Make sure to thank him again for me, won't you?" Harry asked as he handed it over.

Mipsy nodded and with another quick wave and a "Bye!" she left again with a _pop!_

"Mister Hairy Pots?" Fred asked with a grin.

"How do you grow hair on a pot?" his twin continued.

"Apparently, I'm some sort of Chia Pet," he answered.

The twins may not have known what he was talking about, but he found it hilarious.

"Ron will be alright, won't he?" Harry asked. "It'd be rather awkward staying here until next year if he hates me."

"I'll look in on him and Ginny," Mr. Weasley said wearily, running his fingers through his sparse hair. "I'll make sure they know what's going on."

As Mr. Weasley left, Harry thought he heard a muttered 'git' from one of the twins, no doubt talking about their petulant missing brother.

"Oh! Where's my head?" Molly said, rising to her feet again. "I've forgotten all about breakfast."

Seeming to make up for lost time, Mrs. Weasley had a feast on the table in no time at all. Harry ate gratefully, his hunger returning as soon as the agreement was settled. Ron didn't return for the meal but Mrs. Weasley tried to put his mind at ease.

"Ron'll come around eventually," she said as she dished out a second helping onto their plates. "He's got too much of the Prewett pride in him to make it easy. My brothers were just the same. They'd be the first to jump to each other's defense, but one wrong word and Fabian and Gideon wouldn't speak to each other for months. Merlin knows Ron could do more to be proud of though," Molly said with a shake of her head. "His grades were dreadful."

"Fred and I were thinking about getting him to try out for Keeper this year," George said.

"Wood's not going to be there forever," Fred explained, "and McGonagall lit into him when we lost our chance for the Cup last year for not having any reserve players. Even if they can hardly fly they're better than none at all, and Ron's not half bad."

Percy put down his fork; food in his stomach finally seemed to solidify what he wanted to say.

"Harry, on behalf of myself and all the other Hopefuls," the prefect said formally, "I'd like to express my appreciation for what you've done for us."

"You don't have to do that," Harry said embarrassed. "I didn't do anything, so there's no use in appreciating what a thieving guardian did with the money."

Mrs. Weasley looked embarrassed as she heaped another helping onto their plates.

"Still," Percy pressed, "the Hopefuls have always felt immensely grateful for our chance and have always looked for some way to make a difference. Bill always applied himself because of it and Charlie chose the dragons over Quidditch because he thought living the rest of his life on a broomstick would be a poor way to pay Hogwarts back for giving him that chance."

"You remember that broom England gave him to try to change his mind?" Fred asked George enviously.

"Wish he would've left it behind," George agreed. "That burst of speed would knock your socks off."

A look passed between them sending George to his feet and heading for the stairs. Fred lingered for a moment, shoveling what he could of his eggs into his mouth before he moved to follow.

"Now where are you two going?" their mother asked.

"Can't tell you that, Mum, but I solemnly swear that we're up to no good," Fred said piously.

"That's not good enough," she said, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him back to his seat. "You tell me what you two are up to."

Just then there was a knock at the door, causing Harry's stomach to plummet.

"You wait right there," Molly told Fred with a warning finger and steely look as she went to answer the door.

Harry put his fork down and took a calming breath, waiting for the inevitable.

"Albus! How are you? What a pleasant surprise," Molly said as she welcomed the traitorous old man inside.

"Fine, just fine," Dumbledore said as he entered. "Ah! I see that your letters have arrived."

"Well – yes," Mrs. Weasley said, a bit flustered. "We were rather concerned at first, of course, but everything's turned out for the best. You can keep Ginevra's name down, we'll be able to pay," she explained with a smile to Harry.

"Really?" Dumbledore smiled to Harry, a gesture he didn't return. "Quite fascinating. I don't suppose I could trouble you for a minute of Harry's time? We have a lot to discuss."

"We don't have anything to discuss," Harry cut in before Mrs. Weasley had a chance to respond.

Harry felt his nervousness grow in leaps and bounds and he quickly tried to get a hold of himself. _'Be Harold_,' Harry said to himself. _'If there's one moment to be Harold, this is it_.' He felt like he was going to be sick.

"I think you'll find that there's a great deal you need to know," Dumbledore said in what he thought might pass for kind, if you didn't know any better.

"I think you'll find that there's a great deal I know already," Harry said coldly.

"Harry-" Mrs. Weasley said, trying to keep things civil. As if Dumbledore being there were some kind of grand event in itself.

"I think it might be best if I take young Harry back home to his family," Dumbledore said to Molly with a hurt look.

"That place was never my home, and those people were never my family," the Harry that was Harold said.

"Certainly, you don't mean that, Harry," the headmaster said, as if trying to sooth a distraught child. "They are the only family you have."

"An accident of birth," Harold said, the phrase popping up from somewhere as he stood. "That doesn't make them my family or that place my home. _This_ is my home," he explained. "That was signed and sealed before you ever arrived. These people have been more like family to me in the last week than the Dursleys ever were in ten years."

"Wha-what is going on?" Mrs. Weasley asked, standing by her sons. Percy looked torn while Harry doubted that Fred's eyes could get any bigger.

He felt his hands grow heavy, as if all the blood in his body decided to congregate there at once. Harry flexed his fingers and had to keep himself from reaching for his wand, just to make sure it was there.

"Yes, why don't you tell her what's going on?" he asked. "Why don't you tell her how you abandoned me with those magic-hating monsters and how you've been stealing my parents' money away all this time?"

"Albus?" Molly asked, at a loss for what to think.

"Harry," the headmaster said with a wounded expression. "I never abandoned you. You don't think I'd do that to you, do you?"

Mrs. Weasley looked to him.

The nervous flutter in his stomach exploded to life once more and Harry felt the edges of panic. Had he been wrong? Was this Quirrell all over again? All that time last year he had been distracted by Snape only to learn that it was Quirrell that was trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone for Voldemort, who had been possessed by Voldemort.

Was there some other guardian out there?

_'No,'_ the Harold part of him thought. _'We're right. We have to be right. It's the only thing that makes sense.'_

_'Since when does the wizarding world make sense?'_ his doubt asked.

_'He's the snake_,' the Harry part of him said, full of righteous anger. _'We can't trust the snake. We're not as dumb-as-a-door anymore.'_

"Yes," Harry said, looking Dumbledore straight in the eye. "I think you did exactly that."

"Harry," the headmaster said sadly, "the goblins have twisted your mind. I never abandoned you, and I never stole from you. Your family had always been very generous patrons, I was merely following in their footsteps and doing what I thought was best."

"Then you are his guardian?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"His _magical_ guardian, yes," Dumbledore explained. "His aunt and uncle have the right to him in the muggle world."

Harry's doubts fluttered again and he tried to tamp them down, remembering what Lichfield had said.

"I was born at St. Mungo's to a witch and wizard," he said, with maybe a touch of panic coloring his words. "I never should have gone to the muggle world. Someone here should have looked after me."

"The person your parents picked proved untrustworthy, so I was appointed by the Minister of Magic herself," Dumbledore said in a tone that clearly communicated that he shouldn't have to explain himself, especially to a child. "It was up to me to decide what was best for you."

Harry switched tracks and attacked again.

"Like it was up to you to decide what was best for my parents' money?" Harold asked. "They locked their account down as much as they could. My grandfather called what you did the Beggar's Circuit. That doesn't sound generous to me. It wasn't your place to help yourself to their money or to kick people off their land."

"It's a guardian's duty to see to the financial affairs of their charges, and I never kicked people off of anything," the headmaster said in the same wounded voice, but Harold wasn't having it.

"Right, you just had Gropegold do it for you so you could keep your hands clean," Harold attacked again.

_"Gropego-!" _Molly exclaimed.

"And the only person who twisted anyone's mind is you," Harold said forcefully. "I saw what you did to Hammerhand. He tried to protect my family and you _twisted his mind!"_

The part of him that was still the little boy in the cupboard spoke up and the Harold part of him proved defenseless against him.

"It's a guardian's duty to actually raise their charges," Harry said quietly. "They're not supposed to throw them away the first time they need their nappy changed."

Mrs. Weasley looked at the headmaster in shock and for the first time he seemed uncertain how to respond.

"Living with your relatives was the safest place for you," Albus said at last. "And what happened with the goblin was an unfortunate accident; I only intended to persuade him that it was for the best."

"Albus," Molly said, looking stricken. "Gropegold? Surely you wouldn't do that."

Dumbledore for once looked humbled and hung his head.

"We only have five years left. We've been here for _twenty five years_," she said beseechingly as Harry looked at her curiously. This time he was the one at a loss.

"I'm sorry," the headmaster said, "but it is for the greater good."

Mrs. Weasley paled, whatever she had thought his answer would be – that wasn't it. A moment of silence held before–

"Get out!" Mrs. Weasley said.

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore said.

"You heard me," Molly said forcefully, pointing at the door. "GET OUT!"

"Surely you don't think so ill of me," the headmaster said, back in his wounded old man voice. "Two of your sons: Fred, and Percy are named for me."

Percy legs fell out from under him as he collapsed back to his chair; Harry hadn't even recalled him standing; Fred looked like his brain had melted.

"And don't you think for one minute that I'm not considering changing them to James and Barry for what you've done," Mrs. Weasley said, backing Dumbledore towards the door. "Steal from a child? Abandon him? HOW COULD YOU?"

Harry watched in stupefied silence as plump little housewife, Molly Weasley, faced down the most powerful wizard in the country.

"You are not welcome in this house," she said. "And if I never hear the name Albus Dumbledore again, it'll be too soon!"

"Might I use your floo?" the old man asked, as if hoping for one last courtesy.

"No, you may not use our floo!" an astonished Mrs. Weasley said. "Boys!" she cried imperiously. "Throw him out!"

Fred and Percy got immediately to their feet. Her tone was such that even Harry found himself moving to open the door as the brothers shuffled their headmaster out into the garden. Harry slammed the door with a smile on his face, though he did peek through the curtains until he saw Dumbledore start to walk away.

There were quick footfalls on the stairs as a concerned-looking Mr. Weasley came back down.

"Did someone say Dumbledore?" he asked.

"He was here," a still-fuming Molly said. "And you won't believe what he said."

"We don't believe that we could be named for him," Fred said, standing by a nodding Percy. "How does that happen?"

"It's a long story, Fred," their father said.

Fred sat down and crossed his arms in defiance, clearly communicating that he wasn't going anywhere until he heard it.

"It's about – relations," their mother added.

Percy mirrored his brother while looking to his parents expectantly. Harry thought it would probably be best to leave and give them a good long moment alone; he could get his questions answered later.

"No, you can stay, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said as he began to leave. "This has to do with you too, and I'm sure you have questions."

Harry shot her a curious look and wondered if they were about to get a wizarding version of "the talk."

"Not those kinds of questions," she said quickly. "I think we've both have had quite enough of would-be guardians for today."

Somewhat relieved, though unsure how relations with Molly Weasley could have anything to do with him, Harry cautiously sat down by the two brothers. Mrs. Weasley looked to her husband as he put his hand around her shoulder.

"The truth will out," he said as he pulled out a chair for her.

"But how do we even begin?" she asked.

"We got married?" her husband shrugged and sat across from them.

"Well, yes, I suppose that would be a way to start it," she said as she sat as well. "When your father and I got married," Molly said to her sons, "we lived for a while in this very small flat."

"Tiny, really," Mr. Weasley added.

"It certainly wasn't the place you'd need if you wanted a family, which we did, very much," she continued. "Your father had a friend at the time that worked for Gringotts and he asked around for someone who'd be willing to rent out a place for something we could afford."

"Eventually, he found someone," Mr. Weasley took up the tale. "It wasn't a house but it was a nice plot of land, at a good price, close to a village where we could get anything we might need."

"It was a chance to build a home of our own, however we wanted to build it," Mrs. Weasley smiled.

"-And when the kind old man who owned the place found out why we wanted it," Mr. Weasley shared her smile, "he took the land and doubled it saying-"

"-'Lots of kids need lots of room to play,' what a nice old man," Mrs. Weasley finished for him.

"And Dumbledore?" Fred prompted.

"We're getting there," his mother scolded. "The first bit of house came quick enough and we thought we'd make a start on a family in no time," she said as Percy squirmed a bit.

"As time went on-," Mr. Weasley said.

"-We thought that something might be wrong," Molly said, somewhat embarrassed. "For two – three years we'd tried with no luck-"

"We tried potions, charms, standing on our-"

"They get the idea, Arthur," Molly cut in on him. "Finally we went to St. Mungo's to see if there was anything they could do."

"The healers there said we had already tried everything they could think of," Arthur said somberly. "If the magic was going to work, if there was anything there for it to work on, it already would have."

"I was devastated," Molly said. "One of the Healers took pity on me and suggested I approach Albus Dumbledore for help."

"But how could he help you?" Fred asked.

"Because Albus Dumbledore used to be a great man," Molly said as her husband looked at her in askance. "He and this friend of his had studied cures and the like for decades, and the Healer said that if anyone could help us, that friend of his could."

"Of course we told him that we couldn't pay-," Mr. Weasley said.

"-And Dumbledore said that the man had no need of money and he was sure that he'd help," she continued. "He lived in this tower in the Hebrides, of all places, with goblin guards of all things."

"I said it was like going to the North Pole to see a very odd Father Christmas," Arthur said.

"I called him Saint Nick, because that was his name," Molly said.

"Nicholas Flamel?" Harry asked.

"You've heard of him?" Arthur asked.

"We've heard of him," the boys replied.

"Well," Molly continued, "these other goblins came with this heavy steal chest and–"

"And?" Fred asked.

"I don't know," his mother said with a shrug. "For the life of us we can't remember. They said they had to Obliviate us in order to protect the secret of how it was done, and we were so thankful for even the chance that it might work that we never pried into it."

"Needless to say, it worked," Arthur said with a smile. "In three months or so William was on the way. Of course we called him Bill bec-"

"-Because of Uncle Bilius," Fred and Percy said by rote.

"And then came Charlie," their mother said, "who we named after Charlus, the nice old man who gave us such a nice home to begin with."

"My grandfather?" Harry asked, astonished.

Mrs. Weasley smiled as the brothers gave him an interesting look.

"But how do you get Fred and Percy out of Albus Dumbledore?" Fred asked.

"Because the man has more than two parts to his name," his mother scolded him for ruining such a nice moment. "Albus Percival-," she gestured to Percy, "Wulfric-," she gestured to Fred "–which became Frederick, because we certainly weren't going to call you either Wulf or Rick," she shot her husband a glance, "Brian – which Ron was very nearly named – Dumbledore."

"That's a lot of names," Fred said, echoing Harry's own thoughts at the moment. "Why didn't you ever tell us?"

"What was the point of telling you?" she asked in return. "It's the same reason we had not to tell Harry when he arrived. We thought the land and lease had been sold years ago when the goblin we paid rent to changed, we didn't think anything shifty was going on. Saying, _'Oh, Hello, Harry, we used to rent this land from your family_,' would have made things awkward."

Harry heard the fireplace roar to life but he only had eyes for Mrs. Weasley.

"So I'm your landlord," Harry said, trying to wrap his head around the situation. "But I'm also your tenant?"

It was a gruff voice that answered him.

"Law gets kinda funny, don't it?"

Harry looked up to see his litigator brushing soot off his clothes with a grin.

"Lichfeld?" Molly Weasley asked curiously as if trying to place the face to a name.

"Close," the old bailiff said. "It's -field, not –feld. Looks like you got those kids you wanted."

"You know Lichfield?" an astonished Harry asked.

"Of course we know him," Molly said. "He used to pick up our rent from time to time and gave us a nice long extension on our lease."

"Hang on," Harry said, turning to Lichfield. "You said you thought you knew the Weasleys."

"I did think I knew them," the litigator said. "I _knew_ I knew them. It's a kind of thinking."

"You could have told me, and you could've gotten here earlier, you know," Harry said. "Dumbledore came by and tried to take me with him."

"Sorry," Lichfield said. "But I thought it was more important that everything was done as soon as possible so him taking you would've been illegal. Besides, I didn't think you needed your nappy changed. I would've been here sooner but I had to calm a panicked Overseer."

"What happened?" Harry asked concerned.

"Dumbledore made an odd move and Barchoke thought he was going to curse him in the middle of the lobby," the old bailiff explained. "Probably thought he was going to go out the same way his father did. Damn!" Lichfield said when he caught what he said.

"Hammerhand is-"

"Don't you dare tell him I said that, got it?" Lichfield said with a look

"Got it," Harry said with his hands up. "So," he said to Mrs. Weasley, "when I mentioned Gropegold-"

"-I knew then that the land had never been sold off," she answered quickly.

"It couldn't be," Lichfield interjected.

"-And with Albus acting as guardian-," she continued.

"What do you mean it had never been sold?" her husband asked. "I thought for sure that-."

"Albus was going to have that-that _goblin_ kick us out as soon as our lease was up," Mrs. Weasley said, again with a full head of steam. "He stood right in our house and admitted it himself. I never would have thought he'd attack that other goblin though; he was very professional."

Mr. Weasley looked shocked.

"He attacked him?" Lichfield asked. "He admitted it?"

"He said he tried to persuade him," Harry answered.

"How the hell did you get him to say that?" the litigator asked.

"I just said I knew what he'd done," Harry shrugged.

"No you didn't," Percy said. It was the first time he'd spoken for a while.

"Sorry?" Harry said.

"You said you saw it," Percy explained.

"Well, it's what I meant," Harry said. "Does that make a difference?"

"Oh, yes," Lichfield said. "Because there are ways you can actually see the past. In memories. If he thought you had seen Hammerhand's memory of the event he would have wanted to put his own spin on what you saw. Might actually mean there might be something there to look for."

"You're really going after him, aren't you?" Mr. Weasley asked. "Dumbledore, I mean."

"Absolutely," Lichfield said. "Speaking of which, I'm going to need a statement and memory from everyone here who saw that exchange, and your permission for it for those kids who saw it."

Mrs. Weasley looked to Harry, then nodded.

"Mipsy!" Lichfield called, bringing the little elf _pop!_-ing back.

"Yes, Mister Lichy, sir?" she asked.

"Go to my office. I need Truth Quills, vials, legal vellum, and two Underage Witness Forms," Lichfield said to the elf before she disappeared with a big grin. "I may just have to make her my legal secretary," he said to Harry. "She's come in quite handy today."

In moments Mipsy was back with a load of stuff in her arms. Harry helped her put it on the table so it wouldn't spill out all over the place as Lichfield slid the forms over to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. It took several minutes and some precise spell casting and labeling by Lichfield before the four somewhat smoky vials full of memories found their way into his pocket.

Harry didn't think he wanted any more Memory Extractions performed for a while; the side of his head felt decidedly numb and it felt odd to blink. Mrs. Weasley sent Fred and Percy off to find something to do, completely forgetting what she had wanted to know from Fred in the first place.

Harry remembered something he had wanted to give Lichfield and had forgotten in his letter. Telling him to wait there, he ran up to his room to put back his Blood Quill and retrieve that other odd Boy-Who-Lived book that he had gotten from Ginny.

If he had found it odd, Lichfield had looked at him like he was crazy. The old bailiff took it anyway though, saying that he'd check it out.

As the Litigator rose to leave, Harry remembered something else to talk to him about.

_'When did my life get so complicated?'_ he asked himself.

"Did you find Dobby?"

"Oh, right," Lichfield said, as if he had forgotten as well. "I found him. Negotiations are done, we just need a time to finalize the exchange."

"We're planning on visiting Diagon Alley on Wednesday, if that's what you mean," Harry said.

"Wednesday works," Lichfield said with a nod. "I'll tell them and be on the lookout for you. Did we have anything else?" he asked as if mentally reviewing things himself.

"I don't think so," Harry said. Maybe he should start carrying around a list.

With a nod to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, the wizened old bailiff left in another gout of green flames.

It was only after the Litigator left that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley spoke again.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley started delicately. "We wanted to thank you for being so understanding about that whole book issue. I tried to get rid of them for years but they kept disappearing and popping up again."

"It's alright, Mrs. We- er - Molly," Harry said before an idea came to him. "If it's not too much to ask, I actually had one other thing to ask you for."

"Just name it, Harry, and it's yours," she said kindly.

.o0O0o.

"You left at the wrong time, little brother. We learned a lot after you left," the twin the thought was George said - or was that one Fred? They should have to go around together all the time so no one would have to guess like that.

"It doesn't matter what you learned," Ron said stubbornly. "I know all I need to know. So much for him being a true friend."

"There's nothing wrong with telling a thief to stop stealing from you, Ron," Freorge said. "And that's all Harry did. How could he know what that thief was going to do with it, or how much other people were counting on it happening?"

Ron tried not to listen, they were only trying to confuse him.

"And Harry has been a true friend - to this entire family," Percy said.

What Percy was doing hanging around with one of the twins, Ron didn't know, but he certainly wasn't going to spend his time thinking about it.

"You have no idea what he's done for us," his stuffy brother continued. "Paying for Ginny's school this year is only the start of it. He has this whole family in the palm of his hand and he's more concerned with having to leave and losing your friendship than anything else!"

That-that didn't sound right to Ron. How could it be? Why would Harry care about him more than he did about money? Money was everything.

"And worse for you," the Geored-twinthingy said. "Is that you've got Mum miffed at you. And since she just faced down Albus Dumbledore and threw him out of the house, her bad side is not a good place to be at the moment."

If the rest didn't make any sense, that was just loony. Mum loved Dumbledore and never heard a word against him. What could make - It just didn't - And Percy didn't go along with -

"What the bloody hell are you going on about?" he asked.

.o0O0o.

"I can't even talk to him! Not a single word?" a distressed Ginny asked.

"Not. One. Word," her mother reiterated.

"Not even to say 'thank you'?"

"You can say 'thank you,'" her mother said, "by not saying 'thank you.'"

Ginny couldn't believe it. How could things have gotten even worse? The moment that Harry comes through for her when she needed help the most, the moment that showed that he might one day grow up to be the Harry from the stories - that's the moment that she can't talk to him any more?!

"But my birthday's on Tuesday," she said anxiously. "He'll be there, won't he?"

Harry had to be there on her birthday. It was the day she became eleven, when she really became a young woman of Hogwarts age.

"He'll be spending the day in his room, alone, and probably writing to his girlfriend," her mother said, twisting the knife inside her. "I'll be casting a spell on the stairs myself to make sure you can't get up to his level."

"But Mum!" she cried.

"No buts," her mother said. "You've had your chance to get to know him and you've blown it. You'll stay away from him from now on. He's been incredibly generous to even let you go to Hogwarts at all, so you'll keep your mind on your books when you're there. Your brothers will be watching to make sure you don't bother him when you're at school too."

"They know?" she asked, shocked at the betrayal.

"Of course they know," her mother said. "How could they not know. You creep him out! You've been creeping them all out. The sooner you forget about Harry and find people your own age to talk to, the better off you'll be."

Ginny glared mutinously at her mother with her hands folded across her chest until the woman left her room. Her mother wasn't happy that she had no books anymore, she just had to take her imagination and any possible hope from her too. Now she didn't have any friends at all and no one to talk to.

.o0O0o.

Frail old Albus looked back at the cheerful little house with scarcely any cheer in his heart. The Greater Good had presented Harry with an opportunity to do its will, and though he had acted on its behalf, he had done so halfway, and for something in return. Perhaps if he had gotten here sooner, or if those goblins hadn't worked against him, greedy as they were, he could have achieved more for the Greater Good.

That thought weighed heavy on his heart though he contented himself with the knowledge that there was still plenty of time left for the boy. Years lay ahead of them before Harry had to do what must be done, and the lad was well on his way. There was still plenty of time to guide the boy until he was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for the good of all.

Still, one thing did trouble the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world. So much of what young Harry had said were but twisted parts of the truth of things. Should his trusted allies hear those twisted beliefs before he could make the truth known to them then there was a chance, however small, that they might believe them, as Harry did. Perhaps it was time to take them into his confidence.

With a weary heart, Albus turned for home. It had not been the outing he had been hoping for, but everyone deserved a second chance.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** I've never liked it when others refer to Fred and George collectively as Forge (as if the two had fused into one body, without Gred along with it - though that's a stale joke that's past the time for it to be retired), which is why I particularly enjoyed Ron's attempt to call one of them something else. And after not bashing the Weasleys for this long, you didn't think I'd start now, did you? Besides, why make them evil when you can make them serfs? And as for a confrontation using magic? Action like that has to be earned and both Harry and Dumbledore (insane and deluded as he may be) are smart enough to know that that would be precisely the wrong thing to do to get what they want.

Thanks for reading.


	12. Bias

.o0O0o.

"I WANT HIS HEAD ON A PIKE ON HOG'S HEAD HILL FOR WHAT HE'S DONE!" the irate Overseer cried, practically foaming at the mouth in his anger.

"And you'll get it," Lichfield answered him. "Maybe not the head, or the pike, or Hog's Head Hill since his brother bloody well owns it, but we'll get him."

"NOT SOON ENOUGH!" the Overseer's words rattled the windows as spittle flew from his thin lips.

Lester knew when it started that Barchoke would be incensed but this gave a new definition to goblin rage. The man – no, the goblin – was ready to lead a march on Hogwarts itself and damn the consequences for everyone in what came after. There was only one thing he could do.

"What is the failing of your race?" Lichfield demanded.

"You dare say that ther–?" Barchoke fumed.

"You've said it yourself, you damn fool!" the Litigator interrupted, his own voice rising to match the Overseer's. "Now what is the failing of your race!"

Barchoke stared at him, his eyes hard and full of malice, breath coming in great huffs, and body positioned wide to make a more intimidating target – looking every inch the goblin warrior that the banker might have been if history had unfolded differently. After several tense seconds the goblin's breathing slowed and his body relaxed a bit so that the fine suit he wore no longer looked at risk of bursting at the seams.

"Patience," Barchoke said, the anger in his voice turning to bitterness at having to wait. "Goblins have no patience."

"And repeating what happened three hundred and eighty years ago doesn't seem a particularly wise course of action," Lichfield pressed, if only to put an end to any such thought. "That didn't turn out too well for you lot last time, did it?"

The Overseer flumped back into his seat and stared out of his row of office windows.

"It got the Ministry to stop minting their own Galleons," Barchoke said, taking up the opportunity to speak about something else.

"And how many goblins died, only to get what you had in the first place?" Lichfield asked. "You never got representation in the Wizengamot you were looking for."

"Bah!" Barchoke waved the issue off. Now was not the time to settle old scores, it was time to find out how to settle new ones. "You'll get him?" the goblin asked roughly.

"We'll get him," Lester replied. "Not sure exactly how yet, but we'll get him. If all else fails, you'll have to settle for him rotting in Azkaban for the rest of his life, but we'll get him."

"No," Barchoke said. _"I_ want him. He's _mine_. I will make his life a living Hell the likes of which you humans have never imagined, and after I'm satisfied that vengeance has been served, maybe then I'll let him die."

Lichfield ran his gnarled hands over his equally gnarled face and sat back down in his chair. There'd be no budging the goblin on this, he had known that since the day Barchoke had come to his house – back when he had still had the house – and begged him to make Gringotts look after his father for what had been done to him. And to think that it was just an idle comment, a flimsy guess tossed out about a possible cause that had lit the fire in the goblin in front of him and led him to shave his head and swear vengeance against a hypothetical someone that might not have even existed.

The goblin race does not forget, nor do they forgive, it's what has made relations between the two peoples prickly at best. The fact that individual members also carried these traits to varying degrees made friendships tricky to navigate, but in Lichfield's mind they were worth it just the same. It made for implacable enemies and stalwart allies. To beat them you had to be just as implacable as they were, but when it came to being allies, you had to do things the goblin way when they demanded it and they'd do the same for you. It was the price you paid for friendship.

"The boy's just a start," the Overseer said. "A good start, but we'll never get our hands on him with that. They'll do anything they can to keep him away from me once they catch hint of goblin involvement. We need something else, something big. There has to be something in his past we're not seeing."

Lester gave his head a good scratch to give himself a moment to get his thoughts together.

"What's the situation with Gropegold?" he asked when he was done.

"Cracked like an egg as soon as we showed him the Keys we got from Dumbledore," Barchoke said. "He's spilling everything now, but the fool still thinks he'll be set free. I doubt even he knows why the old man wanted what he did. Auditor Axegrind will probably have damages assessed by the time the boy gets here on – When was that?"

"Wednesday."

Barchoke nodded curtly.

"I've got a few things we can check up on," Lester said. "It might come to nothing more than more information to knock the old man off that pedestal he sits on and drag his name through the mud, but it's something."

"What is it?" the goblin asked.

"I have to warn you though," Lester said, trying to hide his smile. "It'll involve a lot of reading and digging for information. You sure you're up for it?" he asked with feigned sensitivity for their previous discussion.

"You leave it to me, I'll handle it. You just tell me what it is," the goblin said, now thoroughly hooked.

"This is one of several, or so it seems," Lichfield said, placing an odd book beside the globe of salsa dancers and smoky vials on the Overseer's desk. "I recognize the name of the press but you'll probably need to find and read all of them to see if there are any clues to what the old man might be up to."

Lichfield smiled as a disgusted look crossed Barchoke's face.

"Have fun! I'm off to kidnap some old helpless woman. Tata!"

"Wait – _What?"_ the confused goblin asked.

As he closed the door behind him, Lester couldn't help but laugh. This was turning out to be fun.

.o0O0o.

Hermione. Was. Stunned. As she looked down at the letter she held in her hands, the bit of her brain still functioning after that information overload was unsure precisely how to classify what she felt the moment, but thought that stunned was a bit of an understatement.

Block by logical block Harry had built up his case against the headmaster. He had taken her seriously when she said she wanted every minute detail; the letter had gone on for ages outlining where his information came from, what he had seen first–hand, what he suspected, what different individuals had told him, and what Dumbledore himself had corroborated. It must have taken him most of the day to write it.

"Hermione, are you alright?" her father asked from his customary seat at the circular dinner table.

"What?" she asked, not really rousing from the mental surprise attack. She had been so desperate for information that she had ripped open Harry's letter as soon as it arrived. Why had she done that at dinner? Oh, right. She had been so desperate for infor– She shook her head to stop herself from repeating herself.

"Is there something wrong?" her father coaxed, the absence of any joke noting the seriousness with which he was taking this.

She quickly thought back to see if Harry had written anything relationship–like in it before sliding the letter over to him. How could she explain something like that when she could barely wrap her head around it? Better to let him read it himself.

As her father's eyebrows sunk lower and lower one thing became absolutely clear: Harry had no excuse for doing shoddy homework anymore. While there was virtually nothing in the way of an introduction, conclusion, or even transition from when he outlined his current legal issues to explaining the longstanding connections between his family, the Weasleys, and Dumbledore, she supposed those could be disregarded since it was a letter and not an essay for school.

And while there were still gaps in what he alleges, and there was still a need for secondary independent sources to support the evidence he already had and to flesh out precisely what went on, and he was still holding things back, particularly with respect to his mysterious 'new friend' that had somehow led him to Gringotts to uncover all of this, what he had was already pretty damning.

Her mind properly back in gear, Hermione assigned it to do what it had been trained to do: analyze the claim to determine its validity and see what information, if any, she had that stood to refute it. Underlying Harry's allegation was a set of concrete legal assertions that must each be tested in turn and those were what she had to focus on.

One: Harry was born in the magical world to magical parents. According to every credible source and all the available evidence, this statement was undeniably true. Only sources so biased so as to not be credible would point to his mother's nonmagical origin and heritage in an attempt to invalidate this claim, and that was a case of Moving the Goalposts, a logical fallacy that had no place in determining the truth of an argument. The truth remained that Harry's parents were able to perform magic, and had lived in, fought for, and died in the magical world; anything else is immaterial.

Two: Harry never should have been taken to the nonmagical world to live with the Dursleys. This assertion was particularly troublesome since it encompassed so much of everything else and dealt with two areas that she knew precious little about: magical law and customs. That this assertion came from Lichfield, a professional and practicing wizarding lawyer who was well versed in both areas, leant credibility to the argument, but Dumbledore, an equally prominent – if not more prominent – member of the legal community obviously had a differing opinion.

On the _cultural_ side of things, _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ did specifically mention that it was common practice to send orphans to live with their closest relative during the time in question and had implied that this had always been the case. Though it was by no means an authoritative legal text, she would feel better after reviewing that section for the specific wording involved to see if there was any implication that nonmagical family members were barred from the process.

Knowing now how biased some legal issues were in favor of the "longstanding members of the wizarding community" she thought this might be an application of the lack of Standing that nonmagical people had when it came to Inheritance. On their first visit to Gringotts her father had wanted to give her additional money for any mementos she might want to have, as if their trip to Diagon Alley were to some sort of an amusement park. Their teller had made the off–color comment that her parents had better keep the money on them or if she happened to die any money she had on her would simply be lost since they'd be unable to inherit anything she had.

The fact that Harry did go to the nonmagical world logically pointed to some sort of arbitration and official judgment being made. The fact that this seemed to be corroborated by what both Lichfield and Dumbledore said about the issue indicated that this probably was indeed the case. Professor Dumbledore said, according to Harry, that he had been appointed by the Minister of Magic. Whether this appointment was the same guardianship, and carried the same legal weight, that Harry and Lichfield allege was still unclear.

This appointment could simply mean that Professor Dumbledore, in his role as the head of the Wizengamot, was authorized to determine who should have parental rights to him. If this was the case, if the legal determination was his to make, then he very well could have found in the Dursleys' favor. The fact that the Dursleys had never seemed to want him, at least in Harry's account of them, seemed to belie that they would want Dumbledore to act on their behalf at all.

Hermione supposed it was possible that the Dursleys had, at first, actually wanted Harry, even if only to access his parents' supposedly considerable wealth, and only later came to resent taking him in once the determination had been made and they had learned that they could never touch the Potter estate, and therefore had treated him poorly because of it. This seemed a logical assumption to make since Professor Dumbledore had used the specific legal term Magical Guardian during his discussion with Harry.

During her visit to inform her family about the magical world in general, and about Hogwarts in particular, Professor McGonagall had explained some of the legal complexities involved with teaching students of nonmagical backgrounds. Though Hogwarts had a long history of acknowledging the authority and role that nonmagical parents had in the lives of their children, a tradition they continued through the issuance of permission slips before special trips or functions, the Ministry of Magic had no such tradition.

The fact remained that, by law, legal authority over an underage person's affairs in the magical world defaulted to the member of the family with the most knowledge of the magical world itself. Since at the time that a nonmagical family was approached with the truth of the magical world, both parent and child are presumed to have the same amount of magical knowledge, that legal authority still rested with the parents themselves. Professor McGonagall had warned that this would change though once magical education had begun unless a specific legal fix was adopted: the use of a magical guardian.

By signing their parental authority in magical affairs over to someone with greater magical knowledge, particularly one in an institution like Hogwarts that had a history of deferring to the wishes of nonmagical parents, as long as it did not conflict with the best interests of the child, then those same parents could retain as much authority over their underage children as possible.

If Professor Dumbledore had granted the Dursleys legal rights to Harry, they very well could have signed the remaining magical authority back over to Dumbledore. If that was the case, then she was hard pressed to see that he had done anything illegal. She wished she could say that he had done nothing wrong but at the very least the headmaster was negligent in his responsibility to ensure that Harry's nonmagical guardians had been treating him properly, and she couldn't see how keeping him ignorant of his wizarding heritage and draining away his inheritance was in Harry's best interest when continued contact between them and good financial stewardship was possible.

The downside of this was that, as far as she knew, magical guardians were only used in cases where the child in question was of nonmagical parents. She supposed it could equally apply here and while all this made logical sense to her she had to acknowledge that she lacked the specific grounding to know if it made any legal sense. She simply didn't have enough information at this point to make a determination one way or the other.

While she would love for Harry to be free to enjoy his life in the manner he saw fit and to reclaim everything he was entitled to, she didn't want to think so poorly of Professor Dumbledore. Well–meaning but negligent, or perhaps unintentionally ignorant of any "mismanagement" on behalf of the Dursleys or this Gropegold, due to overwork and spreading himself too thin was one thing but intentional nefarious intent was something completely different.

"Enough processing," her father said, rousing her from her thoughts.

Hermione felt her stomach tighten as she saw her mother perusing the letter herself, though she noticed that she set it aside when it switched from Dumbledore to Harry's family's past. After all, why should she care, the boy was only important to her daughter. She wished that she had had the presence of mind to wait until she had been alone to read the letter as she had all the other ones so her mother wouldn't have been involved.

"What do you think of this Dumbledore?" her mother asked.

"Despite being a surprisingly silly old man that looks like Merlin from that Disney cartoon," Hermione started, hoping to somewhat irk her mother with the nonsensical reference before shifting to regurgitate facts at her. "He's supposed to be quite the accomplished academic and lawmaker, having risen to prominence after his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945."

"His track record when it comes to children leaves much to be desired, if this is any indication," her mother continued. "Perhaps we should review the options?"

"No," Hermione said quickly, glad once again that she had kept the entire Sorcerer's Stone and Halloween incidents to herself. "This is nothing more than a private legal dispute between Harry and Professor Dumbledore. Aside from this massive donation to a scholarship program, Harry didn't indicate that this had anything to do with the school at all. I've only been told about it as a friend so I don't see that any reviewing is necessary."

"And yet," her father added, "this is the person that's being trusted to oversee the health and well–being of – what, a thousand students or more? Perhaps we should consider a review."

Hermione stood abruptly, so scared that she was close to shaking. They were not going to take her from Hogwarts.

"If I say no review is necessary then no review is necessary. Need I remind you that you sat at this very table and said – and I quote – 'Professor McGonagall, we don't believe that a magical guardian is necessary. We know Hermione better than anyone you can name and know her to be very level–headed and trust in her judgment.'? If you could say that when I was ten, I don't see what could have happened in two years to change your mind, particularly when this issue has nothing to do with me, doesn't affect me, and the man in question has yet to say a dozen words to me. And since my magical education clearly falls into the realm of the magical world, that means the decision is mine to make."

Her tirade had her father's eyebrows bouncing back up to his oddly frizzy hair, as if he was amused it had even happened. It washed by her mother though like a river around a boulder, seeming to leave her completely unphased as she simply waited for it to end.

"It's not your critical thinking or decision–making ability that we are calling into question," her mother said. "Rather, it's your bias."

"Bias?" Hermione asked affronted. "How am I biased?"

"Everyone has their bias," her mother said. "The trick is finding it."

"And you have to admit," her father added, "you do have a rather large reason now to want to think of this as an isolated incident."

What followed wasn't a particularly enjoyable conversation, especially since it had her trying to mitigate any wrongdoing by Professor Dumbledore, which for some reason she found particularly irksome. While she could freely say that if Harry's allegations against Dumbledore were true then he certainly wasn't fit to be anywhere near children, she then had to go back and poke the very same holes in their arguments that she had done to Harry's assertions before, and remind her mother that it was not their job to ascertain the truth of the issue – Harry had a lawyer for that.

As she was released to go back to her room, her mind still firmly set on 'leave me alone, you don't know what you're talking about,' she was all the more glad that her parents had opted not to designate a magical guardian for her when Professor McGonagall had suggested it. If they had the school would have been forced to notify her parents that Halloween about what had really happened that night. And even if they had chosen not to withdraw her after the run–in with the troll, she doubted all the rule–breaking and death–defying ordeals surrounding the Sorcerer's Stone would have given her any chance to see the inside of Hogwarts again.

Despite everything she had said to her parents, what was going on at Hogwarts troubled her greatly. Abandonment, embezzlement, systematic neglect and abuse, giant three–headed dogs and possessed teachers – these did not sound like things the great Albus Dumbledore, head muckety–muck of all he surveyed, would be a part of. Harry's 'new friend' had warned that things were going to be bad at Hogwarts but it seemed that that warning had come several years too late.

Rather more harshly than she intended, Hermione pulled out and flipped through the books she had that made any mention of Albus Dumbledore – only to realize that they were the same four that she had gotten for background reading, the three that had mentioned Harry plus _Hogwarts, a History_.

_Everyone has their bias_, her mother had said. _The trick was to find it_.

_Hogwarts, a History_ had a rather _glowing_ review of Dumbledore's time as Headmaster, and even held him up as the single shining point of light in the school's administration by Armando Dippet. Angry at her younger self for being so deluded as to buy all of that without a second thought, even to the extent of wanting to go into Gryffindor simply because it claimed both him and Professor McGonagall as members, she shoved the once–beloved book aside to check the next.

_Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, _and_ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ were all full of glowing praise as well. If someone didn't know any better you'd think Magical Britain was gearing up to either crown him as their King or kneel to him as their god. It was disgusting.

Slamming the last book on top of the others, she noticed it; the way the wording lined up made it impossible to ignore.

_'Of course_,' she thought, _'a book is only as biased as its author_.'

On the spine of the books one word was repeated: Bagshot, Bagshot, _Bagshot_, _BAGSHOT_.

As quickly as that her mind was made up. Hermione grabbed the offensive texts, marched over to the trash bin by her door and stuffed them roughly inside before burying them under other trash. After a second's thought she stuffed _A History of Magic_ down there too, the preface said the woman had been editing editions of it for decades.

She didn't know who this Bathilda Bagshot was, or how she knew Dumbledore, but her bias was obvious. Hermione knew Harry though, and even if she had her own reservations about things, she trusted him.

If Harry Potter was her bias, it was one that Hermione Granger had every intention of keeping.

.o0O0o.

The Headmaster's Office was strangely quiet for the Headmaster's Office, the stillness of the moment only broken by the occasional puffs, hoots, or whirring of Albus's strange silver contraptions that people have given him over the years. Any other time she would have wondered if he even knew what they all did – or if they did anything at all.

Minerva looked over at the others that shared the room with her. Severus looked pale, though with his sallow skin it was hard to tell; the man always looked sickly. Hagrid was already sitting on the floor, a hand to his mouth and head slightly shaking. He was staring off into space and had been that way almost from the beginning. She didn't know how she looked but thought she must be somewhere between the two.

"Abandonment?" she asked, completely at a loss as to what to think. Surely it couldn't be.

"That is what they claim," Albus said in that strange nebulous way of his, as if what they were discussing didn't matter at all. "It's nonsense, of course–" the headmaster said as she began to breathe again. "I've always intended to have a relationship with the boy, once the messiness of youth was behind him," Albus smiled.

Albus smiled? Albus smiled? How could he smile at an allegation of abandoning the most famous child the country has ever seen – or any child for that matter? The thought alone should have smiling beyond the realm of possibility for the foreseeable future. How he should look is concerned.

And if that weren't enough, goblins were involved now and they were alleging bank fraud. That would certainly be enough to keep her awake at nights. Someone in the Ministry had her personal account at Gringotts audited when she left – she had always thought that she must have stepped on the wrong toes during her time in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – and the goblins had raked her over the coals for weeks, leaving her nothing to live on until they were satisfied that nothing untoward was going on. Even then, some of them still looked at her strangely for years after that.

Albus knew all this, he'd been there and it was only by chance that she was able to take up residence in the castle and teach so she'd been able to eat again. Something in what he said ticked in the back of her mind.

"You intended to have a relationship with him – once the mess was behind him?" she asked scandalized. "That's all life is, Albus, one mess after another. When precisely were you planning on ever talking to the boy, after you were both dead?"

"We actually had two very nice conversations just last year," Albus said jovially.

"And what of the ten years before that?" she asked. "How could you leave them with those people? I told you then that they were the worst sort of muggles imaginable."

"And yet," Albus said with his arms spread joyfully wide, "you agreed with me that there was where he should be."

"I thought I had no choice!" the deputy headmistress explained. "I went there to beg the person from the Ministry to reconsider, no matter what the law might say. I thought that was you. How was I supposed to know that you were his guardian?"

"His magical gua-" Albus smiled.

"You can't have it both ways!" the deputy headmistress fumed. "You can't be his guardian when you help yourself to his account and then only his magical guardian when it comes to raising him."

The old fool looked at her like she had suddenly grown gills and started spouting mermish at him.

"N-no," poor Hagrid mumbled, still shaking his head in response to Merlin alone knew what. "We didna."

"You should have just told me that you didn't want him," she pressed. "I would have taken him straight back to the Ministry and arrange to raise him myself."

"Which would have put you in the same position as I," Albus said. "With our obligations to the school–"

"–We have _house-elves_," she countered immediately. "They would have loved the extra work of looking after him during my classes, and I couldn't imagine better friends for him. He would have been in a good environment, with an entire generation of witches and wizards able to meet him – which would have completely demystified him, and he'd able to learn everything he'd need from an early age."

"And it would have put all of us at great risk," the headmaster said sorrowfully. "I'm sure we all recall what happened to poor Frank and Alice."

That chilled her to the bone like a dip in the lake in the middle of a Scottish February. How could he expect her to forget friends and former students that had been tortured into insanity? They weren't like the ones that attracted no notice to themselves in class and simply slipped by, like she was sure Severus had been. For the life of her she couldn't recall anything about him when he was younger.

"Even at his height, You-Know-Who never dared to attack Hogwarts," she reminded him. "With him gone, the Death Eaters wouldn't have stood a chance. The only way they could have hoped to breach the castle during a school year would be if you let them."

She looked at her old professor with a sense of loss. What had happened to the powerful man who had so captivated the minds of young people and amazed them with the dazzling heights of spell work they could only hope to achieve through hard work and nearly constant practice? Where had the brave defender of freedom gone after Grindelwald's defeat? What had happened the principled person who had stood in the halls of the Wizengamot and so bravely stated:_ 'If you allow such discriminatory laws against our brothers and sisters to take effect, simply because they happen to love the same sex as themselves, not only are you condemning some of the most prominent names in magical history to the realm of second class citizenry but you'll be condemning _me_ to live so as well'_?

He looked like such a poor and diminished man now; the goblins would tear him apart. And worse, he had left Hogwarts itself open to their ravenous ruin.

"I cannot begin to say how disappointed I am in you, Albus," she said as she started to help Hagrid to his feet; the poor man had suffered quite a shock. "Come along, Hagrid, let's see you home."

Minerva took one last look at Albus as she left; where had her hero gone?

As the gentle giant made his way down the tightly curved staircase in front of her all the things she should have said came to her mind. James and Lily had put their trust in him, they had followed him, believed in him, and this was how he repaid that trust – stealing from their orphan son and abandoning him? He might as well have taken him into the forest to be raised by the centaurs.

Anger rising within her again, she turned back to give him another piece of her mind.

"I risked my life–," she heard Severus say from the other side of the door as she inched closer. "–To give her and her son a chance to survive, to make up for what I had done. Did you even warn them what was going to happen or was this all a part of your plan? "

Minerva felt her stomach plummet. Surely Albus couldn't have changed so much as to engineer the Potters' deaths. It was unthinkable, but so was him abandoning and stealing from a child. She only heard a muffled response as she pressed her ear closer to the door, not even daring to pull her wand in case she was discovered.

Albus had been secreted away with Severus so often these last several years that once she had thought them pillow friends, but the younger man's surly attitude and occasional lingering glances at some of the older female students put an end to that thought quickly. Now seemed a perfect time to catch a glimpse of what was really going on between them.

"He's her son!" she heard Severus say. "As much as I wish he weren't, he is, and you leave him with Petunia? Tell me again how _indulgent_ a mother Potter has."

_'Petunia_?' Minerva wondered. Albus had never said what the family's name was. She had found them all those years ago but couldn't even remember the surname now for the life of her, so how could Severus know them so casually? _'It's almost as if–'_

Suddenly it made sense.

James Potter she clearly recalled from her class, usually in the company of Sirius Black. They were always causing a disruption of some sort – sword fighting with haddocks, changing the color of their hair, growing antlers or tails – while his eventual wife, Lily Evans, was best known for rolling her eyes, telling them to be quiet, and hanging around that thin, pale little male friend of hers that Minerva had always just referred to as Lily's Shadow.

Lily's sallow-skinned, hooked-nose, greasy-haired Slytherin shadow. That was where Minerva knew him from. It was Severus Snape. How could she have missed it? Then again, a _Slytherin_ being friends of any sort with one of her Gryffindors was just the latest in a long line of unthinkable things to be true tonight. "House differences" on the question of Blood Purity must have pulled them apart at some point.

"You made me think he was some pampered little prince," Severus continued. "But he was the kind of prince that no boy should have to be," he finished curiously.

"And I've always said that you saw only what you wished to see," Albus said in return, sounding as if he were speaking to a distraught child.

_'Apparently we all did_,' Minerva thought to herself as she went down the spiral staircase. There was nothing more to say to Albus, nothing that would make a difference anyway. The die had been cast. With goblins involved there'd be nothing they could do short of all-out war that would stop them from tearing Hogwarts down brick-by-brick. She only wished Albus hadn't done anything else so colossally stupid.

It was only when she heard the stone gargoyle behind her move again that Minerva realized that she had spent the last several moments staring down at Hagrid's hut. Merlin alone knew what that man was feeling tonight. He treasured his friendship with Harry, to know that he'd been some unwitting pawn in his abandonment – it'd be devastating.

She turned to see the shadow that was Severus Snape still standing at the opening to the Headmaster's Tower.

"What are we to do, Severus?" Minerva asked. "He's put Hogwarts itself at risk, and goblins do not stop."

"Some of us are more mired in it than others," he said cryptically. "And there is only one thing we can do: look after what is most important to us. That's the only chance we have."

.o0O0o.

Albus could have wept as he saw the Heads of two rival Houses part ways as the gargoyle closed again. What loyal and loving friends he had! Even after their disagreement, after taking the news the wrong way, they had so quickly realized their mistake and was even now moving to support him. Not that he needed the support, of course. He was Albus Dumbledore. He was always right, everyone would see that in time. After all, what would they do without him? Surely the world would collapse around them.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Thanks for reading.


	13. Razzle-Dazzle

.o0O0o.

Lester kept his eyes closed as he felt his head emerge from the flames. After a precautionary puff of air out of his nose he then blew small jets of air from his mouth towards his eyes to clear any trace of loose ash that might have accumulated on his face before he'd chance opening an eye. Some might complain about getting ash in their mouths but that was only if they've never had an eyeful of the stuff. That was _not_ a pleasant experience.

Whatever his plans, a soft padded pat on the nose had both eyes open at once and Lichfield suddenly found himself eye to eye with a very curious cat. Lester retaliated at the assault of cuddly cuteness by blowing a blast of air at it.

"Go away," Lester said and sent another blast of air at the tiny creature. "Shoo."

The curious calico must have decided that the mysterious head in the fire wasn't interesting enough to take another blast to find out more about it because it sauntered off with its tail held high. Now free to take a look around, Lichfield noticed one thing right away: the old woman who lived here had no taste. This coming from someone whose apartment had plain white walls and almost no decoration whatsoever, Lichfield mentally revised that to bad taste rather than no taste.

The strangest thing about it was probably how anyone could stand to live in a place that smelled this strongly of cabbage. It might be one of the mysteries of the ages.

"Hello?" Lichfield called. "Anyone home?"

The last thing he needed was some old biddy giving him the run around by constantly stepping out to get Mr. Whiskers and his eighty two offspring their own private dose of tuna every day.

"Just a moment!" a woman called from the other room.

Lichfield tried to wait patiently through the sound of feet shuffling, doors locking, and curtains being drawn. Just as the pain in his knees was about to have him damn the pretense the grey–haired old biddy in question appeared.

"Y–yes?" she asked.

"Sorry to interrupt," Lichfield smiled. "Are you Arabella Figg of Figg Leaf Breeding?"

"Oh, um – yes," the curious woman answered.

"Wonderful! Do you mind if I come through?" he asked.

"I suppose not," she said.

On wild impulse, Lester tried something he'd always been curious about. Feeling his body back at Gringotts, he kept his hand as close to his neck as possible and followed it towards his head until he was reaching into the flames. It was a curiously twisty sensation, but soon enough his hand and arm popped out of the fire next to his face. Repeating the process on the other side and with a couple self–shoves on both ends soon had the Figg fireplace giving birth to a very old and gnarled Lichfield.

"Sorry about that," Lester said, standing up and dusting himself off. "Didn't want to chance spooking some of them or treading on one of those cats," he explained, gesturing to the growing flock of fur balls around the room.

"That's – thoughtful of you," the woman said uncertainly.

"Oh, where's my head?" Lichfield asked with a smile. "I'm Lester and I got your name from Gringotts. It seems you inquired about an investment opportunity and acquiring a few more Kneazles for your operation? I've always found that getting to know the person behind the business to be the best way to go about things, don't you?"

"Oh, of course!" the curious Mrs. Figg said now smiling. "Why don't you sit down and I'll make us a spot of tea?" she asked as she hustled him towards the small kitchen table and started bustling around the room.

"Curious to find an animal breeder in a muggle neighborhood, isn't it?" Lichfield asked.

"Oh, I don't mind muggles," Arabella said as she put the pot on to boil. "They love cats even more than we do, so there are plenty of kinds of toys and such they've come up with for the animals to play with. Plus, no one here bothers to look into the affairs of an old lady with a bunch of cats."

Lester found it amusing that the woman transitioned so smoothly from pretending to be a muggle to pretending to be a witch. It made him wonder how far a Squib could go with a bit of acting and a good deal of luck.

"So, you interested in breeding?" the old woman asked. "Cat breeding," she quickly corrected.

"I found the kneazle mixture to be interesting," Lester said. "But what intrigued me most was how close this house was to Privet Drive."

"P–Privet Drive?" the suddenly nervous woman asked as she removed the whistling teapot from the burner and added the tea. "What could possibly be of interest there? Just one muggle place after the next."

"Well that is where Harry Potter lives, isn't it?" Lester asked as total silence fell. "Tell me, why didn't you go to him for this investment? He owns this house, after all, and is your business's primary backer."

The curious old squib turned to look at him with large panicked eyes.

"With him living right down the street, you must see him all the time," Lester continued with a smile. "Did he not think it was a good idea?"

He expected evasions, he expected denials, what he didn't expect was a well–aimed teapot scalding him and sending hot water all over the room. Damn squibs were crafty, and quick. The only thing left of her at the last place he looked was a single tartan house slipper. Emerald flames erupted in the fireplace and if it weren't for a quick flick of his wand the old biddy would've gotten away.

"Help!" the old woman cried to the flames as she fell to the floor with conjured ropes all around her.

Lichfield Summoned the woman to him and held her in front of him like a shield as twin gouts of flames saw a couple of young people shoot out of the fireplace.

"Halt! Aurors!" one young girl with pink hair called, before promptly tripping on the rogue teapot and tumbling to a _halt_ herself.

"Aurors, you?" Lester had a good laugh. "You pups couldn't be any higher than trainee cadets. What, did everyone else go out for a long lunch and not come back?"

Somewhat embarrassed looks passed between the kids that some fool had left too close to the floo network. The pink–haired girl's hair shifted slightly towards red before returning to its normal color as she stood.

"Release the woman and give yourself up," Pink–Hair's compatriot commanded. The boy didn't look like he was old enough to shave.

"Why should I?" Lichfield asked. "I'm a Bailiff and here in my official capacity, but you? What're new recruits like you doing out without someone to change your nappy?"

Mr. No–Need–To–Shave–Yet looked to Pink–Hair for support. These kids had no idea what they were doing. If someone intelligent had been there though, sending them in would be a nice diversionary tactic while they snuck up from behind. If that person didn't mind them being killed before they could get the drop on him that is.

"Tell me," Lichfield said. "Is that old coot, Alastor, still working there?" Lester saw in the flicker in their eyes that he was. "You tell him I said, 'razzle–dazzle!'"

And with a swirl of color and a hooked feeling behind his navel, the old bailiff left the fool kids wondering what the hell had just happened.

.o0O0o.

If the bright mid-morning sun had Severus hating the blighted orb slightly more than usual, the children running along Diagon Alley had him hating all of mankind. Was there nowhere he could go and no time of day that would see him safe from those intrusive dunderheads?

Catching sight of a sign to his right that had a particularly large group of the little urchins in front of it, Severus angled his way there. Before he had even crossed the intervening space one of them had seen his reflection in the window and they had decided, en masse, to go elsewhere. There were benefits to being the most hated teacher in the history of Hogwarts.

The garish green sign had promised a spectacle, and it delivered. Set out like an exhibit at a museum, a dirty and peeling set of trainers sat next to the traced footprints of an orphaned boy, and next to them was a copy of what the boy would be wearing from now on.

Severus wanted to point to the autograph the boy had included or the expense that must've gone into the new shoes themselves and see nothing more than pampered privilege, but the fact remained that the boy had taken better care of himself in that one act than Albus Dumbledore had done in the ten years before it.

The night before, the man had dared to ask if he had formed an attachment to the boy. If the man had any sense remaining he would have known that it doesn't take an attachment to know that even people you despise for being who they were still deserved a minimal level of common decency shown to them. If he still had any doubts at all on his current course of action, those trainers had settled them.

He left the display quickly before the odious shopkeeper could solicit his patronage. Down the Alley he went, most shoppers moving aside to open a space for him – though more out of fear and uncertainty than from respect. These people were all fools and only a fool would want respect from them. Severus gladly took their fear; fear made them move faster anyway.

The goblin guards of Gringotts noticed him when he was still two shops away from the bank. He noticed that they noticed that he had noticed, and noticed now they shifted slightly as he made to enter the bank itself. The goblins bowed courteously, as was their custom, and Severus strode through the large double doors without giving them any apparent notice, as was his custom.

The bank was thrumming with activity, kicked into high gear by breeders flocking with their ungainly spawn to purchase putrid potions paraphernalia pawned off on them by sloppy shopkeepers who knew they wouldn't know the difference. Some tried to blame him for their precious little spawn not knowing if their Fluxweed was flattened or their Knotgrass was too knotty, but if the breeders couldn't take the time to look after their own spawn then they shouldn't have spawned at all.

After waiting in line for several infuriatingly slow minutes behind a particularly annoying mother and urchin, one he seemed to recall asking for an extension on his essay last term, which he had so gladly denied, Severus finally got to the teller.

"Ah, Professor Snape," the goblin said. "We don't often get the Hogwarts crowd in here, but now we seem to have one a day. You normally do your transactions through mail, don't you?"

"I think we both know that would be useless to try and do now, wouldn't it?" Severus asked with a knowing sneer.

"It would," the teller smiled.

"Then you may tell – whoever it is – that I am here for a rather informative meeting."

The teller looked at him closely and nodded before slamming a 'Next Teller Please' sign on his desk and gesturing to a door to the side.

"This way, professor."

Hearing the groans from people behind him, and knowing that he was forcing them to wait in yet another line by taking the teller away, gave Severus one last moment of joy to sustain him through what would come next.

.o0O0o.

Harry was hunched over his desk when his door slowly opened. Trying to put everything into one letter was quite a job to do, and he couldn't help feeling that he was still forgetting a couple of things. All the big stuff was in there though, so he didn't think that Hermione could complain too much. At least now she'd know as much as he could remember to tell her.

He saw slow movement of a red blur at the edge of his vision and knew it could only be one thing. Harry ignored it for a while to concentrate on reviewing the letter. Was there another bit about Hogwarts he was forgetting about? Harry mentally shrugged it aside. If he was forgetting about it then it must not be that important.

Someone cleared their throat from near the door.

"Hey, Ron," he said as he folded up the letter.

"Er – Hey, Harry," Ron answered as Hedwig made her way down from her perch on top of the wardrobe.

"Did you need something?" Harry asked while concentrating on fastening the letter for its trip.

"Do you really not care?" his friend asked nebulously.

Hedwig flew out the window before he turned to Ron.

"Do I not care about what, Ron?" he asked, trying to get the echo of 'Some friend you are, Harry,' out of his head.

"Money," his sort–of–friend said. "All that money that Dumbledore stole from you. Do you really not care?"

"That was my parents' money," Harry explained. "I never knew it was there, but that doesn't mean I want it stolen either. It's the only thing I have left of them."

"So your concern is about your parents and not the money?" the red head asked.

"Yes, Ron. It's the only thing I have to remember them by, the only thing to show that anyone ever cared about me, but I'd trade all that away in a second if I could get them back, wouldn't you?"

"What?" Ron said stupidly.

"If you had all the money you could ever want," Harry asked. "Enough to buy anything you could ever want and still have more than you could ever spend in a lifetime, but what you didn't have was your family – wouldn't you be willing to trade all of that away to get them back?"

"That's – Woah, that's a lot of money, Harry," Ron said with a grin. "With that you could do anything."

"Anything but get your family back," Harry corrected. "No Fred, no George, no mum and dad, no Bill or Charlie, not even Percy and Ginny. If the only chance you had to see them again was to give it all back, wouldn't you do it?"

Ron seemed to flounder.

"All of it?" Ron asked incredulously, sitting down on Harry's bed. "That's a lot of money. We're talking about a mountain of gold the size of Hogwarts here. We could buy Quidditch teams for a tiny bit of that."

"Isn't your family worth more?" Harry asked, wondering if his friend would ever get it. "Besides, I'm not there."

"You're not?" he asked.

"Nope, you're all by yourself," Harry said. "But you can get your family back if you give up the money."

"Well, I could see giving up a bit more than that – maybe, maybe half," Ron said.

"Sorry," Harry said. "If you are going to get them back then you're going to have to give up the whole thing. It's just the way it works."

"That's just greedy!" Ron said, not even catching the irony. "I wouldn't be any better off than I am right now."

"You have a family that loves you, right now," Harry replied. "I'd give all the money I have to have what you have right now. What's the point of just having money if you don't have anyone to share it with?"

Harry watched as Ron's eyes darted about unfocused. He had seen this happen a time or two before, on the rare occasions where he was actually doing well in a game of chess against him, and Harry thought he knew what was happening. Ron was probably imagining flying on a top of the line broom, swooping around his mountain of gold and through tiny twisting tunnels inside it, or sitting down to a feast fit for a hundred people and having it all to himself, or perhaps even lounging around a mansion full of really expensive things, with a wonderful view of his mountain of gold – but everywhere he went, no matter what he bought, he'd still be alone. Suddenly all of those things, and all that gold, didn't seem quite so valuable any more.

"I never thought of that before," Ron said, running a hand through his hair. "So – you're really living here now?"

"Well, yeah," Harry shrugged. "Your sister needed to go to school and I needed a place to live; it seemed like a good deal."

"And you don't even care how much it costs?" Ron asked.

"You guys have been nice to me," Harry said. "That's all I care about."

"I've been an idiot," Ron said sourly.

Ron was still looking at him oddly after breakfast the next morning, though it could have been the fact that he had stacks of books lying around him and was still digging through the Weasleys bookshelves that had him looking like that… or the fact that he had begged off Quidditch until after lunch so that he could continue digging, Harry wasn't really sure.

What he couldn't believe was that he'd been walking back and forth in front of a goldmine all week and had never even noticed. The shelves were stacked three rows deep! Sure, the first row was full of books telling you how you could charm your own cheese and things like that, and the second row was all about child–rearing, home-building, and old catalogs of muggle appliances, but the row behind that actually had real books.

There were books on plants, and books on caring for animals, books on healing minor scrapes and curing minor ills without the need for a Healer – which Harry supposed must be what they called a wizarding doctor. There were the standard kind of textbooks you'd find at Hogwarts, and then there were some topics he'd ever even seen before. There was one called _Simply Enchanting_ that was full of strange symbols, charts full of numbers, and strange shapes that seemed made of nothing but odd angles.

What Harry hadn't expected to find was a handwritten book. A handwritten leather–bound journal if he wanted to strive for Hermione–like preciseness. This was pretty much a mish–mash of just about everything: household plants and their uses, cooking recipes with potions ingredients in it – which presumably did something for whoever ate it, pages of those odd symbols and angular designs, even plans for a house that looked nothing like the Burrow.

Harry was wondering how something like this could've made its way into the Weasley home when on the very next page he saw it: the design of a clock. It wasn't just any clock though, it was the Weasley clock – it really couldn't have been anything else. Around the sides were some of the same phrases, though some, like _'Time to Feed the Baby_,' were obviously different. The curious part though was that each one had a string of those strange symbols with it. The real clock didn't have those on it – or did it?

Harry was just getting up to check when he heard Mr. and Mrs. 'It's still strange to call her Molly' Weasley coming down the stairs.

"No, absolutely not," Mr. Weasley was saying as he hurried away from his wife. "I'll hex it off first. We said when we had Ginny that we weren't having any more kids. We're not going to have more just because you think you'll feel – Harry! I thought you were upstairs with the boys."

Mrs. Weasley smacked her husband on the shoulder.

"This," she said, gesturing to Harry, "is why you don't build a house vertically. This is the second time I've had embarrassing conversations while walking in on him."

"Third, actually," Harry admitted. "The first time I hid in the kitchen until it was over."

Molly hid her face in her hand in embarrassment.

"Right," Mr. Weasley said to his wife. "Next time we build the house your way."

Harry chuckled.

"Was that the house I found in this?" he asked, holding up the journal.

"Oh, now where did you find–," Mrs. Weasley started before seeing all the books strewn about as she rounded the couch. "I guess I don't have to ask that question, do I?"

Mrs. Weasley smiled as she flipped through the old journal.

"Oh, look, Arthur!" she said excitedly. "There's that recipe I had to incorporate a Sound Sleeping Solution into a meatloaf."

"So it is," Mr. Weasley said with a less than enthusiastic look. "We're _so_ lucky you found that, Harry."

"Yes, well, it may not have tasted like custard cream but it got the job done," Molly said defensively. "And I didn't hear you complaining when the kids were little."

Mr. Weasley shrugged noncommittally.

"Aw, there's my house," she said fondly as she flipped through to the next page.

"Would have been hard to press all nine of us in that little thing," Mr. Weasley said appraisingly.

"That's the beauty of normal homes, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley chided. "You can build out – not just up."

"I was going for a nice tower look," Arthur said evasively.

"You and Xeno both," Molly said with a shake of her head. "And my clock! I had forgotten that was in here. My, it was so simple in the beginning, wasn't it?"

Harry hadn't thought there was anything simple about the drawing he'd seen; it was the most complicated thing he'd ever seen, and he said so.

"Oh, no, enchanting's actually quite simple once you know the basics," Molly said with a wave. "The hard part came later. You have any idea how tricky it was to get one object to track nine others all at the same time, especially when they're all related? I'm lucky it didn't turn out to be as big as a house."

"Do they teach that at Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.

"They touch on it a little at N.E.W.T. level, once you know the basics," she answered.

"Newt?" Harry asked.

"Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests," Mr. Weasley explained, looking over his wife's shoulder. "They come after Ordinary Wizarding Levels in your fifth year."

"They used to have a whole class dedicated to it," Mrs. Weasley said. "But something bad happened when we were younger and a bunch of people died – turned people off the subject."

"You've got a bad rune there," Arthur said.

"What? Where?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Just there," her husband said, pointing to one of the symbols on the page. "That says 'chickens' not 'baby'."

"Yes, well," a flustered Mrs. Weasley said, quickly flipping through the journal again. "Nobody's perfect."

"Hang on, is that why we got chickens in the first place?" Mr. Weasley asked. _"'Oh, Arthur, you _know _I've always wanted chickens,_'" he said in a fair approximation of Mrs. Weasley's voice. "You made a mistake and couldn't admit the truth?"

Mrs. Weasley snapped the journal shut.

"I may not be as bad as my brothers," she said drawing herself up to her full height, which, seeing as she was rather short, didn't amount to much. "–But that doesn't mean I'm not without my own bit of Prewett pride."

"Have you thought about what you're going to do with the extra money this year?" Harry asked, thinking it might be best to distract the Molly.

"I'm – I'm not sure I follow you," Mrs. Weasley said, looking at him strangely.

"Well," Harry said with a shrug, "Lichfield said that we can't collect rent until the whole thing with Dumbledore and that guardianship thing is taken care of, so that'll help you out. And even then," he continued, somewhat embarrassed, "you guys have been so nice; it wouldn't feel right taking your money after you let me stay here. I'd let you have the place, but I think Lichfield would poke me to death if I even mentioned selling it."

"You'd – you'd sell us the Burrow?" Arthur asked shocked.

"Well, yeah," Harry said. "It's your home."

Harry suddenly found himself pressed against the warm fleshy bits of Mrs. Weasley in his first ever hug from a mom. It was rather uncomfortable; he didn't know what to do with his hands. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, he ruffled up Harry's messy mop of hair even more than it normally was.

"You're such a good boy, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said.

Harry finally decided that giving her a pat on the back was probably the least he could do.

"Oi!" one of the twins called from the stairs. "I thought we told you-"

"-We're never gonna call you 'Dad,'" the other twin finished for him.

"You should be so lucky," their mother chided, walking off into the kitchen with her husband while flipping through the journal again.

"You've got her wrapped around your finger," Ron said amazed, "and you've barely been here a week."

"Can you imagine what it'd be like by this time next year?" Fred said with a grin. "We really will be calling him 'Dad' at this rate."

"Nah," George said, "You're forgetting Hermione. She'd probably challenge mum to a duel for Harry's hand."

"You think we could sell tickets?" Fred grinned again, his eyes growing to the size of galleons.

"You're all bloody mental," an exasperated Ron said. "Come on out with us, Harry," he said, changing the subject. "We could use another Chaser. These two need all the help they can get to get one past me."

The twins looked at their brother like he had lost what sense he had and were determined to bring him down a peg or three. It didn't look like it was going to be pretty.

"Sure," Harry said, "I'll come. You guys go ahead, I'll grab my broom."

He just got back downstairs when he met Mrs. Weasley at the foot of the stairs.

"Er – Harry," she said uncertainly. "You've got a call in the kitchen."

Harry hadn't seen a telephone the entire time he'd been at the Burrow, so getting a call from anyone was rather unexpected. Plus, besides Gringotts and Dumbledore, who else knew he was here? It couldn't be Hermione; he hadn't even known a number to give her so she could call.

Following Mrs. Weasley to the kitchen, what he found wasn't a telephone at all – it was a head sitting in the fireplace wreathed in floo flames; Professor McGonagall's head. Harry was instantly wary; his first thought was that Dumbledore had sent her. He relaxed a little though when Mrs. Weasley started puttering around the kitchen doing unnecessary cleaning, making sure to shoot suspicious looks at the floo from time to time.

"Mr. Potter, sorry for disturbing you during your break," his Head of House said, for once not sounding like he should be making better use of his time. "We at Hogwarts have been made aware of your current difficulties with Professor Dumbledore."

Harry thought 'difficulties' was a bit too forgiving but was willing to let her keep talking.

"Unfortunately," she continued, seeming rather perturbed with the situation. "It's not within my power to issue a refund for all the allegedly misappropriated funds," she said in a tone that clearly said that she didn't doubt the alleged part at all. "Nor am I authorized to issue any sort of official statement on behalf of the school. Unofficially, I can say that I and the rest of the staff have found the headmaster's actions towards you to have been absolutely abhorrent."

He watched as the transfiguration professor looked away from him.

"I know Hagrid has taken this particularly hard," she said, choosing to look at the closest table leg rather than at him. "We both deeply regret any unwitting role we played that night, and I surely wish that I had tried harder to change his mind when he left you there, but can only say that I thought he was merely enforcing the law."

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It had been agonizing enough to piece together that Hagrid had been manipulated into taking him to Gringotts in the first place, but now McGonagall had been there the night he'd been left on the Dursleys' doorstep? Just how mangled up was the wizarding world? Would he next be learning that he had spit up on Madam Hooch's shoulder and Madam Pomfrey had helped birth him?

"While this may change your opinion of some of the staff," McGonagall continued, looking up at him again. "I can only hope that it doesn't change your opinion of the school itself."

Harry wanted to say something, but couldn't think of an empty platitude to say that he could even remotely mean at the moment.

"To that end, if you're willing, I would like to arrange an informal meeting with the students affected by the Hogwarts Hopefuls Scholarship Program."

This even got Mrs. Weasley's attention; her look changed from wary disapproval to curiosity.

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Because it has changed my opinion of the school," McGonagall explained. "The school, and Professor Dumbledore, has gained a lot of goodwill in the last several years; goodwill that it doesn't deserve. You have been wronged," his Head of House declared. "Not only was the money taken from you, but the credit for it as well. And while I cannot give you the money back, I can give you the credit."

"I don't need the credit," Harry said, shaking his head. With the goblins reversing all the transfers Dumbledore ordered and them going after Hogwarts in order to get all that money back there really wasn't anything to get credit for. Then again, McGonagall probably knew that.

"You may not need it," the transfiguration professor said, "but you deserve it more than he does."

Harry couldn't help but to agree with that. It would feel good to take something of Dumbledore's for a change; even if it wasn't something you could hold in your hand or lock away in a vault. Something of his feelings must have shown on his face.

"I was thinking this Wednesday," McGonagall said, "in one of the Leaky Cauldron's private dining rooms, if that would work out for you. I'd be supplying lunch as well."

"Harry already has plans for this Wednesday," Mrs. Weasley said to herself. "My floo is always available to him though."

He looked over at Mrs. Weasley curiously and got a little smile in return. Harry smiled back as he realized what she had just done. She wasn't trying to be nosy or interfere, essentially saying he was free to come and go whenever he wanted, she just didn't want his plans with Hermione to be ruined. Maybe Molly was a friend after all. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.

"Thursday would be better for me," Harry said, earning him a pat on the head as Molly left the room. "I would like Litigator Lichfield of Gringotts Bank to be there though, and he would probably like to talk to you."

"I don't really see what I could possibly contribute," McGonagall said curiously. "But if you wish, I'll give him a call. I shall see you then. Have a good day."

Harry wished her a good day and her head disappeared with a _pop!_

At times Harry wished all he had to worry about was Quidditch.

.o0O0o.

Deep within Gringotts, Barchoke wiped his shaven head as Severus Snape came out from under the effects of the Veritaserum he had been dosed with. For a human whose job it was to prepare potions, he was for some reason loath to put his faith in them when it came to questioning. After dealing with Dumbledore though Barchoke wasn't taking any chances. Veritaserum, Truth Quills, and Memories: the three nails for Dumbledore's public crucifixion.

The human had been intelligent though, probably knowing that it might take what he most wanted to avoid if he were to avoid… what he most wanted to avoid... Goblins weren't fools though; the Purging Potion and Veritaserum he had brought with him had been switched with some of their own make. The human had probably knew they would be and only brought them to offset any balance against him if their subsequent testing proved them just as good, if not better, than the ones they had used.

That had been the whole thrust of the meeting: rectifying the balance; that was why Auditor Axegrind had been brought in and why they now had ten years of Personal Account Statements and a detailed listing of rare and expensive potions ingredients, their estimated value, and potential buyers for them to go through. Snape had put everything of value that he had on the table and said, essentially, "Take it all."

Yes, the human was wily.

It was the kind of exchange that goblins were always wary of because it was never certain what the other side was trying to buy. It always left them uncertain as to what questions to ask too, though _"What do you hope to gain by this?"_ was always top of the list, even if the answer was invariably, _"I want you to leave me alone_."

The questions had been direct, pointed. They wanted to know where the money had come from, where he had been told it had come from, and what it was for, though only the second part was particularly important to them. The last part, why Snape had been paid so well, had them wondering if Dumbledore was insane or as clever as they come.

Albus Dumbledore had a repentant pet Death Eater on the Hogwarts payroll for more than ten years and had been paying him to be his personal spy in case the Dark Lord ever returned. That was insane. The payments always coming from "donations" from phantom accounts that disappeared as soon as you looked for them. That was clever.

It was times like this that Barchoke wished he had a wizard's knowledge of magic. A wizard's magic was practical, theoretical, or mathematical in nature while a goblin's magic, such as it was, was instinctual and crafty. Magic, for a goblin, literally had to be worked into an object though how was never quite clear, even to them. That was why the goblin race had always wanted wands. With wands the magic simply was, the instinct directed by thought rather than craft. And with a wizard's way of magic too–

With Lester distracted with that Figg woman, the Overseer was on his own and at a loss since he didn't know what other questions to ask, or even how to understand any answers that would've been given even if he had the questions to ask. In the end he had no other alternative but to add a binding stipulation to come in should they have any more questions before they allowed him to go.

"That last part," the potions professor said, referring to the Auditor's last question: _'Why did you want to work for Dumbledore against the Dark Lord in the first place?'_ while his hands flexed beside him as if he wanted to go for throats. "That will not be repeated outside this room."

It was Auditor Axegrind that spoke to the implied threat.

"It will be repeated anywhere we damn well please and as loudly as we choose," the goblin in black barked back at him. "It's not like anyone would believe it, even if we did. _'Master, could you please try not killing this one, I'd like to keep her as a pet. Kill the kid though,_' is hardly an expression of love. Now get out," he dismissed the human with a wave.

The presence of armed guards and the fact that the human had no wand probably had more to do with his quick exit than anything else.

Severus Snape had loved Lily Evans? Who cares?

"Overseer Barchoke," a lowly cart operator said from the door. "There is a floo-call for Litigator Lichfield, but he still doesn't want to be disturbed. It's Deputy Headmistress McGonagall."

"Tell her to come in," Barchoke replied. "When she does, I'll pry the man out of there if I have to."

Having never had the excuse to go outside during a storm Barchoke didn't know if this was true, but the human expression 'when it rained, it poured,' seemed appropriate.

.o0O0o.

Severus stood naked and exposed for all Diagon Alley to see, or at least that's the way he felt. He pulled his cloak around him more tightly and tried to look at things objectively as he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron. Not all of his secrets had been laid bare, only the ones he had never wanted anyone to know, and those were the ones the goblins had so laughingly tossed back into his face as being worthless.

He had been hoping to go through the questioning without the use of veritaserum, or at least to have the questioning done with the supply he had brought. He had no doubts as to the quality of potions of his own make, and he had been diligent that his vertiaserum was of the finest quality imaginable for only that quality would leave the one who imbibed it truthful yet without the dream-like state where they volunteered too much information.

Had he been able to take his own potion he would've been free to truthfully tell them that what they had asked had no baring on Albus Dumbledore's abandonment of the boy. They had taken his potion to reimburse themselves for the vile swill they had used on him and had left him in a near catatonic stupor. Even with Occlumency skills as refined as his there was no defense against veritaserum. How could your mind be coherent enough to mount any defense when the potion's magic was seeping through your very veins to assault the brain directly?

As it was, the questioning could have been worse. It wasn't over, true; he'd feel compelled to return if they summoned him for more questioning, but it should be over for now. The goblins had been strictly focused, for the most part, wanting to know what he knew of the abandonment - which was negligible - and Dumbledore's financial misdeeds - which he knew only slightly more about, though only through piecing things together.

Severus had never bought the Headmaster's line that "unnamed benefactors" had been impressed with his role in the war and wanted to show their continued appreciation by donating to a private fund so he could acquire the quality and rarity of supplies he was always after for his own research. Whenever he had tried to find those "benefactors" they would slip away like ghosts, so in the end he had simply made use of the money some fools would leave for him. Never had he thought it had been pried from Potter's cold, dead hands.

He was why the potions master had gone to Gringotts today. If anyone was capable of reaching out from beyond the grave to drag others down with him it was James Potter. He had done so with his one-time cohort, Sirius Black, for his betrayal, and now there were goblins involved. Severus knew that returning every illegal Knut he had been given, even showing the investment had turned a profit, was the only way to avoid a similar fate. After all, nothing was more important to Severus Snape than Severus Snape and as far as money was concerned, he and Potter were square.

Lily Evans though had been his friend first and by the Unwritten Rules of Men that meant she was his. He had first claim to her and Potter had snaked her out from under him - before she could ever be under him. She had never been a Potter and never would be, as far as he was concerned. And while she may have hated him for words said in haste, she had no grounds to hold them against him so unjustly when he had debased himself and apologized.

She had cause to be angry, but she had no cause to run off with Potter and spread her legs for him - to give Potter what had belonged to _him_ by right. If any sort of afterlife existed, if she had any way of seeing what was going on in the world, then she only had herself to blame when it came to the boy. If she hadn't been so spitefully stubborn as to run off with Potter when he could have hidden her instead, when she had defiled herself by sleeping with him and getting with child, and she had trusted his stupid band of miscreants to protect her from the Dark Lord, then yes, she did only have herself to blame.

If any lingering spirit of Lily Evans waited for him on the other side death then she only had herself to blame for how he treated the boy too. The boy had come from her, the eyes said so, but how could she think that he'd treat him as anything other than what he was: the proof of her sin against him. How could she think the boy would be anything to him but walking embodiment of her spite and betrayal. The boy should never had been born, the fact that he was when a young child named Snape should have been in his place was something he could never forgive.

The goblin said that what he felt was hardly an expression of love; so be it. If he couldn't hide himself away with thoughts of how things should have gone and call that love then he wanted this thing with Albus done with all the sooner. Then he'd be free to hate them all equally: the prancing ponce Potter, the stupid girl that had betrayed him, and the Boy-Who-Shouldn't-Have-Been-Born.

.o0O0o.

It had been a tiring couple of days for Lester Lichfield, so tiring that he hadn't even bothered to torment his downstairs neighbor – besides flattening the rubber wheels the boy's automocar moved around on. He looked up the steep flight of stairs to the inner door to his apartment and began the trudge upward with a groan. He really needed to install a floo so he wouldn't have to rely on the regional public one, but who knew if the fools in the Ministry would get around to clearing it out before the landlord came by checking to see if he was dead when he didn't pay rent one month.

When he moved to set down his briefcase, Lester knew that something wasn't right. There was no pitter-patter of little feet scurrying over for work and that could only mean – Lichfield drew his wand and whirled to the right, aiming for the apartment's single chair. Sitting there he saw a surprised-looking Mipsy with a dripping ice-cream cone almost as big as she was; her tongue paused halfway to giving the swirling vanilla tower another good lick.

She smiled and pointed behind him just as he felt a wand press into his back.

"Constant vigilance," the man behind him said.

The silence of the moment was suspended just long enough for Lester to consider, and then reject, the idea of spinning around and knocking the wand behind him away. This wasn't some first year recruit; no doubt he'd have another wand held further away out of his range. Formalities must be observed though.

"You know I lost Constance a long time ago," Lester said in reply, just as he had since the day his wife had died.

The man behind him grunted in recognition, though it did nothing to sooth the growing look of concern on the house-elf's face.

"And I still say that you're a damn fool for having left," the gruff voice said.

Lester returned the grunt of recognition, though he had never had any doubts as to who the man was. As he began to turn to face the visitor the wand pressed into his back even more.

"Mind telling me why there's still a wand in my back?" Lester asked.

"Mind telling me why you abducted an old friend of mine?" the man behind him answered.

"What makes you think I did something like that?" Lester asked, motioning to the young elf to remain seated and enjoy the rare treat as he went about replacing his wand in his pocket and removing his outer robe. Just because the visitor was being persnickety was no reason Lester couldn't make himself at home in his own apartment.

"A wizened old codger is unphased by two trainees showing up, displays clear knowledge of the inner workings of the Department, claims to be a bailiff, asks for me by name, and then uses a registered emergency portkey activated by 'razzle-dazzle'?" the voice rattled off. "Yeah, I'd say that's you. Thanks for not killing the kids, by the way."

"Not a problem," Lester said, removing his shoes. "Wouldn't want to kill the recruit you've been spending a lifetime looking for. Where'd you find a metamorphmagus anyway?"

"Albus pointed me at her years ago," the growling voice grunted. "Delayed my retirement to train her. If I can get her to stop being a klutz she'd be great; if she was a Slytherin she'd be terrifying. Records say you're no longer active, how'd you get your hands on that old portkey?"

"It's been on the shelf over there the whole time," Lester gestured. "You didn't think I'd give up the real one, did you? Besides, they never had the authority to fire me. The change of status form must have slipped my mind," he said dryly. "I take it that you also saw who's allegedly in charge of the outfit I'm supposed to be working for?"

"That's why I'm here and not there," the voice growled. "I'd like to get some answers before I try to get some answers."

"Splendid," Lester said. "I assume I can turn around now?"

The visitor grunted again.

Lester turned and took in the form of his old friend, particularly the overly scarred face, wooden leg, missing chunk of nose, and the large blue magical eye that swiveled around in one socket. The man had lost all three bits of him since he had seen him last.

"Damn, Alastor," he said dryly. "You just keep getting prettier, don't you? Is that why you're upset," Lester verbally poked, "did I kidnap your cuddle-bunny?"

The way the man's scars pulled to one side gave Lester the impression that he wasn't in a joking mood. Seems that Moody was really starting to live up to his name.

"Mipsy," Lester said, finally addressing the elf. "Once you finish that up and put the clothes away you can-"

In a flash his shoes and robe had disappeared, leaving Mipsy standing in the kitchen with her hands clutched to her head in pain.

"Don't eat it all at once you crazy little-," he mumbled as he shook his head. "Get started on a proper dinner," he called, "Alastor's staying."

The look of pure joy on the elf's face made for an interesting contrast to Moody's eye bouncing around as if he expected the walls to start attacking him. Lester noticed the man's customary hip-flask and how the eye darted back in the direction of the cleaning supplies. The man had been overly cautious twenty years ago, now it seemed that he had blown past paranoid.

"Don't add any poison to his food," Lester called to Mipsy. "He's a guest."

After a moment he added, "Don't add any poison to _my_ food either."

"Yes, Mister Lichy. You want me to poison you later?" the friendly elf asked, finally earning a chuckle from the mad old Auror.

"No. Never poison anyone," Lester clarified as the elf went to work.

Alastor's magical eye seemed to roll into the back of his head so it could keep the elf in sight, leaving Lester wondering what it'd be like to have two of those things spinning around in his head; he'd probably forget which way was forward within a week.

"I thought you didn't like elves," Moody remarked as he conjured his own chair to sit on.

"Just because I've never seen the need for one doesn't mean I don't like them," Lester replied. "Besides, she had just been born. Her grandparents were gone, her parents were on the way out, her Family had been devastated, and I was the only one even remotely connected to it. What was I going to do, let her die?"

Mipsy had outdone herself when it came to dinner. Lester had always been a very picky eater but the little elf seemed to know what he liked, even when he didn't know how she knew what he liked. Maybe he had been more than a little negligent in his care for her, but at least he hadn't abandoned her. He would have to rectify that mistreatment and give her more work to do, and he'd have to see about having her form connections to other people for when the inevitable happened.

Lester found that once Alastor had his assurance that Mrs. Figg would be released once she agreed to cooperate and testify, he was an energetic audience. Every piece of information was scrutinized, alternate theories were purposed, and different interpretations outlined. The sticking point to him was whether or not legal guardianship had been transferred to these Dursleys, to which Lester replied that he was welcome to look into it, even if the boy didn't want them involved. What Lester was interested in was just how Dumbledore had gained that guardianship to begin with.

"They were killed that Halloween," he said, pointing to the date on the boy's guardianship papers. "How is it that the old man got the boy the very next day in time to abandon him that very night?"

"The next day?" Moody growled, his blue eye swiveling from the bank records to the papers in question. "That was a crazy day, but - I'll be damned."

"What is it?" Lester asked. "Why is that day so important?"

"That was the so-called trial for Sirius Black."

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Thanks for reading.


	14. Adventures in Puckle-Plucking

**AN:** This first section is dedicated to Ziactrice; she's right, Dobby does deserve more screen time.

.o0O0o.

Dobby blinked groggily as he knelt with his head in the oven. It was all about to end; it was going to be over soon. Then, then he would rest.

Master Lucius had been giving Dobby so much work for the last several days; Dobby had never felt so alive! And tired. Alive and tired. Dobby had been going without sleep to make sure it would all be done by today.

Dobby didn't think there'd be much cleaning to do for the next week or more once this was done but they were always thinking up something for Dobby to do. The boy had been bragging to everyone all summer about how his father would buy his way onto his house team so maybe he would use him as a bludger again when his friends came to play. Dobby didn't hope so.

Dobby heard footfalls behind him and started to panic, scrubbing the last of the stubborn burnt food residue from the oven grill and vanishing it with a snap.

"Are you done yet?" the man behind him sneered, making Dobby feel just as worthless as the bit of burnt food he had just destroyed.

"Yes, Master Lucius," Dobby said staying partially hidden in the oven. "Dobby be finished now, sir."

"Good," Master Lucius said, seeming for once to be pleased.

Dobby suddenly felt an enormous pain and was flung forward, crashing into back of the oven, jostling the entire thing and snapping the door shut. In the darkness Dobby's hands made their way to his behind. Master Lucius had hit him with his cane again. Why wouldn't he just leave Dobby alone?

From the other side of the oven door Dobby heard his master speak.

"Go to the basement and vanish your things, then come with me, we're leaving."

Dobby must vanish his things? But where will Dobby sleep? _When_ will Dobby sleep? Not that his master would care. Even though Dobby had been given more work than ever before, this was the worst time in Dobby's life.

.o0O0o.

Harry's stomach tied itself in knots as he looked around the room again. He was in trouble, big trouble, and couldn't see any way out of it. It was Wednesday morning, they were about to leave for Diagon Alley, it was the first time he'd be seeing Hermione since last term and he didn't have a thing to wear!

He tried to tell himself that he was mad to be stressing out like this; after all, they had never said it was a date. That had been before though – back when they were just two friends sending letters to each other, before Harry had asked her to go Hogsmeade with him. That was a year from now, sure, but what did that make this now? And what did that make her? Was she his girlfriend?

Having a girlfriend was a big thing though – huge, even; nothing that big had really changed between him and Hermione though. The only thing that big right now was the butterflies in his stomach, they were the size of rabbits and were bouncing around like they had too much sugar. Maybe he should've gone down to eat breakfast after all. Thinking of the coming trip through the floo made him reconsider though.

It was too bad that all his hand–me–downs from Dudley had already been binned; Mrs. Weasley probably could have shrunken them into something halfway presentable in no time. The night before last Mr. Weasley had taken him out to the shed to check on a strange smell coming from the washing machine. As it turned out, that smell was his clothes.

The bulging remnants of his former life had been washed but left to sit there for over a week and they had started to get all moldy. After a very close call with a magical fungus when Bill was two, the Weasleys didn't take any chances when it came to mold – so out the clothes went. Harry hadn't thought anything of it at the time; he had been using bits of his Hogwarts uniform instead and should've still had another clean shirt and suitable pants. The problem was that he couldn't find them.

Harry supposed that he could try and see if something Ron had would fit him; but Ron was a bit taller than he was though. Odds were though that all of Ron's school things were still wadded up in his trunk, so they'd be all wrinkly too. The ill–fitting issue was true for the twins as well, and they were older, so even if they had something worth wearing it'd still be too big for him.

That brought up yet another problem; a glaring hole in Mrs. Weasley's homemaking knowledge: she had never gotten around to learning how to lengthen or shorten anything. She lamented the fact just yesterday when he had asked her about his clothes while she had been transferring things from the old journal he'd found into a new one she had been keeping.

His plan had been to get her to do what Madam Malkin had done for him before, but while she could enlarge or shrink the whole thing all day long apparently changing just one part of it was entirely different. All the books she had already assumed you knew how to do it, but it had never caused her much of a bother though since having six boys in a row had always meant that there was a steady stream of hand–me–downs to be passed on from one brother to another whenever they grew out of something else.

And as bad as it sounded, even in his own head, Harry didn't want to wear any of their hand–me–downs today. He wanted to look nice. His backup plan had been to repeat what he had done when he had gone to Gringotts: run off to Madam Malkin's and have her fix him up real quick. That way he wouldn't miss Hermione and could stop back by sometime later on for some actual new clothes. That certainly seemed better than standing around on that stool for who knows how long and leaving Hermione to wonder if she'd been stood up.

What he needed now was a miracle. What he got was a knock on the door and a whack on the back of his head that made him see stars as he ran into the underside of his bed.

"Hey Harry," Ron said as he entered, having finally roused himself from an extra–long breakfast. "Mum says we're about to leave."

"Alright," he said as he pressed a hand to the back of his head to check for any lasting damage. Thankfully, there didn't appear to be any.

"She says to hurry up and get changed," Ron continued. "Mum wants to make sure you're 'presentable' before we leave." Above him he heard a soft _thump._ "Clothes are on the bed."

Harry sat crouched in silence as the door closed again and Ron walked away. Surely it couldn't be. Taking care to mind his head, he backed out to see what Mrs. Weasley had sent up to him. There on his bed was a freshly washed, pressed, and folded shirt, slacks, and robe. She had even included a clean pair of socks and underthings.

With a bit of mad laughter Harry thought that if Molly had been there right then he would've kissed her, and wouldn't have minded in the least if it made the twins call him Dad for the whole next week.

.o0O0o.

Hermione took a calming breath and scanned the London street for the Leaky Cauldron as her father looked for a place to park. There was no reason to be nervous, absolutely none. Today was just a normal day like any other; the only exception was a day trip to Diagon Alley to pick up her school things for the new year, that was all.

"There it is," she said as she stared at the old pub like it were some giant coiled snake ready to strike and a new wave of nerves washed over her.

Her father shifted from grumbling about other people's driving habits, as he had been since they entered the city proper, to about London congestion and parking. She was just glad that he had dropped his ribbing that finding a boy she liked suddenly had her off on a whirlwind shopping spree. To that she could only roll her eyes.

If she ever got as bad as that – to where she was obsessing over her hair and whether her nails matched her handbag or if they brought out the hint of honey in her eyes and hair and what her crush–of–the–week might think of them – if she got as bad as Lavender Brown that is, then she might as well leave her brain at home because she certainly wouldn't be Hermione Granger anymore.

As her father repeatedly zigzagged Minnie the Mini Mint Mini into a clear parking spot Hermione checked her reflection in the mirror one last time. She wished she had thought of something she could do with her hair to keep it under control but had ended up deciding that nothing short of magic would settle it one bit.

Hermione chewed her lip in frustration. Her teeth were another issue she wished she could change. They were too big, and no reassurances that she'd grow into them or could get braces to fix them when she was older helped matters any.

She tried to push all those worries away. If appearances were really all that important then there wouldn't be a witch or wizard that didn't look like supermodels, and that certainly wasn't the case. That was why she decided not to dress up, settling instead for a comfortable pair of jeans and nice top and _not_ something that screamed "date" or, God forbid a dress. That would build up expectations too high.

Besides, Harry liked her for her and because they were friends, not because of what she looked like. At least she hoped so, though, if he did like her for what she looked like – then she must not look as bad as she thought. Hermione paused for a bit to ponder that peculiar line of reasoning.

It didn't matter anyway, she decided. Today was not a date; at least she didn't think so. Harry had asked her out, true, but that was to visit Hogsmeade – more than a year away – so that was just an agreement to go on a date then, not now. It didn't change anything about today; she didn't think it did anyway.

The car finally came to a halt and Hermione got out, trying unsuccessfully to smooth her hair as she walked to the door of the pub and taking another calming breath. They were just three friends out to buy their school books, getting to know each other as friends, though that did bring the Ron issue into play. As soon as the silence from Harry had been broken Hermione hadn't written to Ron at all, so she didn't know if any awkwardness from the end of last term would still be around.

She didn't think he'd deliberately try to sabotage things by acting out today though. After all, what would he hope to gain by it? All that would do would be to embarrass both of his friends while showing what a – well, what a complete arsehole he could be, as her father would say when he got mad, and that was something they'd managed to avoid so far, at least since the troll.

"Er – Hermione?" her father called from beside the car as he looked around in a rather confused manner. Though how he thought to find her by looking towards the record store's window next to them or up in the sky she didn't have the foggiest. Perhaps there was some sort of charm on the building to bewilder nonmagical people, just in case the charm that makes it invisible fails for some reason.

Hermione shook her head at her own silliness as she realized what she had just thought. In her nervousness she'd completely forgotten the practical application of what Professor McGonagall had said about the Leaky Cauldron: muggles can't see it and have to be escorted inside by someone who could, so her walking off without him would leave him stranded like she had just vanished into thin air. But then again, how often did she need that bit of trivia?

"Hang on, Dad," she said as she walked back to him. "Close your eyes."

Taking her father by the hand, Hermione pulled him back into the magical world.

As her father took a look around the dingy little pub, Hermione's eyes sought out her friends. They weren't there. With their red hair, usually it was easy to spot the Weasleys from a distance and Harry was sure to be with them. She took a look at her watch, and while they were a little late because of the traffic and all, she supposed they might've shown up first.

"I take it from the fact that you haven't run off that your friends aren't here yet?" her father said from beside her. "You want to wait for them or go ahead and get started?"

She absentmindedly made her way to a seat at a nearby table as she continued to check for anywhere Harry might inadvertently be hiding. One thing she did notice, as her father asked the barman if they had anything nonalcoholic when he came over to take their order, was that the Leaky Cauldron looked decidedly smaller and less scary than it had when she first visited.

She supposed the fact that this visit was almost two years after the first one, and the fact that she had spent much of the last year living in an enormous castle, could account for the change. It was hard to imagine a small London pub as being all that threatening when you spent several hours a week in a dungeon with Professor Snape and the Slytherins.

"I don't know about this," her father said as he looked at his drink questioningly. "How do you reckon they get juice from a pumpkin, Pumpkin?"

"Probably the same way Mum gets it from a carrot," she replied.

"You mean this might actually be good for you?" he asked as he took a sip and smacked his lips repeatedly, as if that would make the tasting process any more efficient.

Hermione hoped that he got all this silliness out of his system before Harry showed up, and preferably didn't go mad like he did on vacations, because she didn't think that constantly rolling her eyes with a long suffering expression would be the thing to do to start shifting things between her and Harry along in the right direction.

"Ooo, this is good," her father declared. "Don't tell your mother or she might insist we start drinking that carrot juice again," he said with a shudder.

Deciding that she'd had quite enough of that, Hermione got up and walked up to the bar.

"Excuse me," she said by way of getting the barman's attention.

"Butterbeer?" the hunchbacked man asked.

"Er – no, thank you," she replied. "I was wondering if you could help me, I'm looking for Harry Potter."

The barman squinted at her curiously.

"He and some friends of mine were supposed to meet me here," Hermione explained.

"Oh, ya mean the Weasleys," the barman smiled a gap–toothed smile; the man definitely needed an appointment with her father. "Sure, the whole gaggle o' them came through a while back. That dark–haired young feller," he said with a look, "he ran through here like a banshee was after him. That ain't you, init?" he finished with wide eyes, gaping mouth, and a finger pointing at her like he had said something particularly funny.

Hermione didn't answer; she was too busy running to alleyway behind the pub.

Any hope she had that they were waiting on the other side of the archway disappeared when she saw the steady stream of people moving from shop to shop, all completely Weasley–free. The only hint that Harry had ever been there was a green sign in one window saying, _'Come See Harry Potter's Shoes!'_

Hermione supposed that since the shop was a cordwainery, a place that by definition makes shoes, they could've actually kept the old ones for display purposes, but with more than one person already taking advantage of Harry for their own gain this would certainly be something his lawyer should look into if they haven't already.

"You shouldn't run off like that," her father huffed beside her. The strange dentist wasn't used to exercise; being thin didn't mean being in shape. "Is that Indiana Potter they're talking about over there?" he asked, gesturing to the sign. "Running from boulders and tribesmen will be rather difficult without shoes."

Hermione rolled her eyes. She loved her Dad, but the man was impossible to live with.

.o0O0o.

He had to wait. He wasn't buying so he had to wait. He hated having to wait. Why did you always have to wait when you really wanted to be somewhere else? The anticipation was always the worst part. He squirmed around in his seat again.

"Alright, don't get your wand in a knot," Madam Malkin said. "Now what do you want?" she asked with a smile.

"I was wondering if you could fix me up again," Harry said, slipping on his outer robe. Last year he had wondered why wizards even bothered with it, but it did make for a nice lightweight jacket.

"You know you could always step up and do it proper," she said, gesturing to the stool.

"I'll come back, promise," he said hurriedly.

"What's the rush?" she asked as she scrutinized the changes she had to make. "Court date today or something?"

"I'm meeting someone – a friend," Harry answered.

"Friends are nice," Madam Malkin murmured, lengthening the right sleeve of his shirt. "What's his name?" she asked, lengthening his left pants leg.

_'__Why did she have to be so torturously slow? It didn't take this long last time_,' Harry thought to himself.

"Her name's Hermione," he said quietly as some witch with spiky pink hair came in to ask her assistant if they could get scorch marks and ground in dirt off some robes.

"Oh, well in that case," she said cheerily, "you'll need a tie."

She tapped him with her wand and as quick as a flash his other shirt sleeve and pants leg lengthened, his Gryffindor crest disappeared, and a tie appeared and tied itself around his neck before his robe buttoned itself up. Another tap had the tie change colors to green.

"It sets off your eyes, dear," she said with a wink that made him even more embarrassed.

He started to head for the door before she drew him back.

"Oh, no you don't," she chuckled. "That'll be a sickle. You come in here again without buying anything and it'll be a galleon," she said with a look that passed for good–natured but trying to be stern without smiling.

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry said as he slapped a sickle into her hand and bolted for the door.

The crowd out in the alley was still going strong, most of the traffic going to and from Gringotts and the bookshop, Flourish and Blotts. Quick glimpses of faces and brushes against cloaks marked his passage as Harry dodged and weaved his way through people as fast as he could. He was going to be late; he just hoped it wasn't too late to make a good impres–

The people in front of him parted to make way and Harry skid to a halt and felt his whole body seize up like he'd been turned to stone. Right in front of him was a wide–eyed Hermione that looked as surprised as he felt.

"Uh – hi," Harry said stupidly.

"Hi," she replied stiltedly.

_'__Oh great_,' Harry thought, _'our friendship's ruined. I'm going to have to move to Brazil and see if we can still be pen pals_.'

Just as they were about to be drowned by that shocked uncertain stillness, help came from the strangest of places.

"Ooo! Is that ice cream?" the man beside Hermione asked, knocking her forward in his mad dash for sweets. "Don't tell your mother," he said in lieu of an apology, leaving Harry to catch her as he fled.

Hermione watched the man dash off with an incredulous look on her face before looking down to see that her hands were on Harry's arms. When he noticed this too Harry found himself becoming very warm. Should he apologize for something? The girl partially in his arms slightly shook her head.

"Hey Harry," she said, smiling shyly up at him.

"Hey Hermione," he replied, finally seeming to relax and smile when he realized that they had just repeated the opening lines to their letters – and had just said hello to each other, twice.

"Did you – er – want to get ice cream?" Harry asked numbly as he released his hold on her and gestured to where the man just went off to a short distance away.

"No, that's alright," Hermione said. "Unless you wanted to," she added quickly.

"Er – no," Harry said. "Maybe later," he added, remembering that he hadn't had breakfast yet. "So was that–?"

"–The Fred and George that spawned me?" Hermione finished for him. "Yes, but if it wasn't for the hair I'd swear I was adopted."

Harry chuckled, earning a tight–lipped smile from her.

"I see Percy," Hermione said, nodding to the redheaded prefect standing nervously outside of Flourish and Blotts and scanning the crowd. "But where are Ron and the others?"

"Oh, um," Harry said, embarrassedly running a hand through his hair. "Mrs. Weasley said that she'd be keeping them occupied. She thought we could walk around with him. He – er – he's got a girl coming."

"Oh," she said, cheeks tinting and tongue darting out to wet suddenly dried lips as she thought of something to say. "That's very – thoughtful of her." Hermione struggled to get her face under control as she nervously plucked at the bottom of her blouse.

"You look–" Harry started, before freezing in mid-sentence. What does he say? Not beautiful, that's too much. "–Nice," he finished dumbly.

Why'd he suddenly get so stupid around Hermione? It was like someone had sucked all of the oxygen out of the entire street leaving him feeling all woozy. It was an oddly lightheaded and energetically nervous kind of feeling. Harry didn't know if he liked it or not.

"You look smart too," she said. "New clothes?"

"Not exactly."

"Mm, Hermione, you've got to try one of these," the gangly man from before said as he reappeared with a half–eaten ice cream cone in his hand that looked like it was sized for small children. _"Triple_ cream vanilla. It puts Lakenham's to shame. Oh! Where's my manners," he said spotting Harry and extending his hand. "You must be Indy, it's written all over your forehead."

Harry stifled a groan as Hermione covered her mouth as she struggled not to laugh.

"Dad, this is Harry," Hermione said as Harry shook her dad's hand. "Harry, this is the large child I live with."

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Granger," Harry said, it being his turn at trying not to laugh.

"Oh, no need for the doctor bit with me," the lanky man said with a wave. "I'm only a dentist. My wife's the doctor in the family."

Harry looked at Hermione curiously.

"So what's the plan for the day?" Mr. Granger asked.

"Er–," Harry said stunned. People had plans for these things? "I've got to stop by Gringotts for a bit, but not until later. Besides that–"

"–We'll just be looking at the shops with Percy and a friend of his," Hermione said, filling in nodding to the prefect in question.

"Is he that boy over there that's talking to that older gentleman and the bird that looks like she wants to fly away? The one with that badge on his chest?" Mr. Granger asked, looking over at Percy where he was chatting with Mr. Weasley and a girl Harry vaguely recognized from school that must've been Penelope.

"Yeah," Harry replied. "That's Percy and his dad."

"Well, he looks like a real stick–in–the–mud, doesn't he?" Mr. Granger said disapprovingly. "I'll go over and distract them while you two kids run off and play," he whispered conspiratorially. "I'll be in the bookshop pricing things; just stop back by later so we can go to Gringotts together. I need to convert some money into the solid gold bricks you guys use."

Harry stared in confusion as the man swept off to introduce himself to Mr. Weasley. He must've been more muggle–crazy than he thought for after the shock of seeing a muggle wore off he was greeting Hermione's dad like they were old friends, giving Percy and Penelope the opportunity to slip away.

"That was – nothing like I thought it would be," Harry said in a daze.

"And you don't really get used to it either," Hermione said beside him. "I think he purposely chooses the exact opposite of whatever anyone expects him to do. Did you get new shoes?" she asked suddenly looking down at his feet.

"Oh, yeah, about a week ago, why?" he asked.

"Oh, it's nothing," she said, describing what she'd seen.

"Well I did say we could do what he wanted to with them," Harry chuckled. "I thought he'd just be destroying them. Would you like to meet him? He's definitely an interesting person."

"Maybe later," Hermione said. "Oh! I just remembered," she said suddenly, grabbing his hand and pulling him away. "Come with me."

.o0O0o.

Draco smirked as he caught a glimpse of what the stupid little red–haired girl was looking at through the bookstore's window. Of course she was stupid; he'd seen her when she came in with that unkempt herd she called a family. She was a Weasley and all Weasleys were lowborn and stupid without a bit of influence.

"Hold these," he sneered, dropping his seven Defense textbooks on an unsuspecting Dobby before going over to play with the girl.

"Oh look!" he drawled delightfully, as if just stumbling upon the grand display outside. "Potter's got himself a _girlfriend_. And they obviously want to be alone," he added as the jumped up mudblood led the poncy 'Prince' Potter away to the Magical Menagerie. It was only fitting that they surround themselves with all the other lower animals. That's what you sow when you swap spit with swine. He'd definitely have to teach that girl her proper place this year.

"How'd you manage to let such a golden opportunity to marry up slip away like that?" he asked, turning to the pale little girl with a look of wonder. "Then again," he sneered, giving the Weasley a critical look. "No wonder he went for a boring book–brained mudblood. It's not like you had anything to offer him, did you?"

The stupid no–named Weasley looked at him in horror, as if he had said the worst thing imaginable. Merlin, he loved that reaction. He should definitely say that word more often.

"Leave her alone, _Malfoy,_" the girl's idiot and equally pale brother said as he came charging to the rescue, dropping a load of second–hand books into the girl's sorry excuse of a cauldron. He might think saying his name in such a fashion was insulting but it sounded like he was saying 'majesty' to him.

"Oh! Looks like you've got a girlfriend too!" Draco said with feigned surprise. "Engaging in a bit of the 'grand tradition' with your sister, are you?" he smirked. "I thought there wasn't anything a Weasley could do and not marry up, but here you are."

The thrill of victory he gained from the verbal barb that made the brother and sister look at each other with the kind of disgust that he had for them himself faded quickly as the presence on his shoulder of a silver serpent capped cane announced the arrival of his father.

"Now, now, Draco. Play nicely," Lucius Malfoy said as he took in his son's choice of prey. His father's voice carried a hint of amusement when he continued. "Let's see, red hair, vacant expressions, tatty second–hand books," he said as he withdrew and examined one of the first year school books from the girl's cauldron. "You two must be the Weasleys," his father concluded, as if their fates were already sealed and no one else would take them but each other.

The rare moment of familial camaraderie was quickly trampled by the balding red–headed man that had to be the insipid source of the stinking cesspit of blood traitors that dared to pass themselves off as purebloods.

"Oh, believe me," the silly–haired man beside him said as they entered the shop. "I wish that were the case, but I'm afraid I just have one of those faces."

Draco scoffed at the man, though he was hardly a man. He was a muggle and made no effort to hide his inferiority, parading down their street with his frizzy hair like he had a right to be there, or to be alive for that matter. If they couldn't exterminate the lot of them they should brick up the front door of the Leaky Cauldron so that these vermin couldn't find their way in anymore. Failing that, the least these swine could do was hide themselves until they could adopt suitable clothes, though he supposed having their abnormality noticeable on sight had its uses. It gave everyone a common enemy to look down on.

His father noticed it as quickly as he did, though the look on his face was more of slight puzzlement than disgust, though the look faded quickly. The muggle man must not have been worthy of that much effort. The man himself must've thought the same because he quickly turned and hid himself in the crowded aisles of books he was too ignorant to understand.

"Well, well, well, Weasley senior," his father said, dropping the books back in the stupid girl's cauldron.

Draco felt his lips begin to curl as his father got into the game. This was going to be good.

.o0O0o.

"Isn't it adorable?" Hermione cooed as she thrust her fluffy pussy at him. "Don't you just want to take it home and play with it for hours?"

The kitten had a squashed face; Harry had no idea what she saw in it that was so adorable. It wasn't ugly, precisely, but it certainly wasn't–

"Cute," he said diplomatically, hoping she removed the tiny squashed–faced ginger cat from his chest sometime soon.

"You really aren't much of a pet person, are you?" Hermione asked in consoling tones as she took the kitten back and pet it.

"I just don't like things that look at you like you've done something wrong," Harry answered.

"This from the person who owns Hedwig," she said to the cat.

"She's better than Imogen," Harry defended his pet. "And at least when Hedwig looks at me like I've done something wrong I've actually done something wrong. Besides, she's family."

"You could be family too, couldn't you?" Hermione asked the ginger cat, which looked back at her reprovingly, as if affronted that it wasn't already considered family.

"If you wantin' any o' them kneazle–kits, you best snatch'em up," the shop owner called as Hermione put the small ginger cat back in its crate. "Word around the alley is the breeder's been nicked for somethin'–," he said conspiratorially as he came over to make sure the lock was secure. "–So might not get mo' fer a while. You sure I can' tempt you?"

Hermione looked torn. "I better not," she said finally. "Things have actually been rather civil at home lately," she said to Harry. "It'd be a shame to mess it up over nothing. Maybe next year," she finished to the shopkeeper. "I was wondering," Hermione said as the man turned to walk away, "do you know of any snakes that can talk?"

"Don' knows any that have anythin' worth sayin'," the man said with a shrug. "They's all a tight–lipped bunch – not that they have lips. Scales, you see."

Hermione shot Harry a look that asked if everyone tried to explain to him that water was wet or if it was just her.

"Right," she said politely.

"If you into snakes though," the man gestured to one corner, "I got one over there but he's never said a peep to me."

Hermione thanked the shopkeeper as he returned to the counter.

"So let me get this straight," she said, returning to their prior subject as they meandered through the store. "You want me to apologize to Ron for him being embarrassed, when it was him that jumped to conclusions in the first place? Why should I apologize for his stupidity?"

"Well, aren't you sorry he's stupid?" Harry asked automatically.

Hermione put a finger across her tight–lipped grin as she fought to keep herself from laughing.

"That's not very nice," she said finally.

"Yeah, I shouldn't have said it," Harry agreed, flattening his hair again. He really shouldn't be talking about his best mate like that, even if it did almost get a laugh.

"Not that," she said. "It's not very nice being funny when I wanted to be flabbergasted at you."

"Why be flabbergasted at me?" he asked trying to divert attention away from himself. "Ron's the one that got confused on what you were saying."

"Yes, but – Wait, that's not what I'm–," she stopped to take a breath. "You are way too good at confusing the issue," Hermione said, properly flustered again. Harry was surprised to find that it was quite enjoyable winding her up a bit.

"You're quite right," Harry agreed, earning a rolled eyes, a shake of the head, and a tight–lipped smile from Hermione before she remembered to hide it with her hand again. "Why do you do that?" he asked curiously.

"Do what?" she asked, sounding like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Why do you hide your mouth like that when you smile?" he clarified. "You didn't do that last year."

Hermione gave him a bit of a pained look.

"My teeth are too big," she admitted.

"I wear glasses," he shrugged and replied with the obvious.

"Well, my legs are like sticks," she pressed.

"I've got knobby knees," he countered.

"And my voice gets all screechy," she said, determined not to lose.

"And I've got this huge scar."

"My hair's a _nightmare,_" she said.

"Have you seen mine?" he asked incredulously.

That was the one that did it. Harry wasn't sure if it was his sarcastic tone, the point they had in common, or the fact that this was the strangest back and forth of all time but something finally cracked Hermione's serious demeanor and made her start to chuckle. He was glad to join in because when they were done she smiled at him like she used to. Yeah, her teeth were a little big, but who cared?

Hermione nudged him with her shoulder and walked over to one sun–lit corner of the shop to peek inside a terrarium with leafy green plants. Harry followed her over, wondering if they had found a cage for some sort of walking plant when they began to rustle. Before he knew it, he was staring at a black–and–blotchy–gold ball of a – whatever it was.

"Well, talk to it," Hermione prompted.

"What am I supposed to say?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Try 'hello.'"

He shrugged and turned back to the ball. "Er – hello," he said to it.

Hermione didn't look satisfied.

"How did you talk to that snake last time?" she asked curiously.

"Wait, you mean that's a snake?" Harry asked. "Neat. _I didn't know you could turn into a ball,_" he said to the snake which prompted the blotchy ball in question to uncoil and reveal a small head in the center of it. The whole animal couldn't have been bigger than the tank was across.

"Merlin's beard!" the shopkeeper cried. "What's going on over there?"

A shocked Hermione hid Harry behind her as the man hurried forward. Whatever had spooked her was no concern of the shopkeeper though for as soon as Harry found himself stuffed into the corner the man angled off to stare out the window; a curious Harry and Hermione followed suit.

There was some sort of disturbance over at Flourish and Blotts; the crowd had parted and two men were rolling around on the ground.

"I hope they don't go for wands," the shopkeeper moaned. "It's very bad for business."

"Arthur, you stop that this instant!" Harry heard Mrs. Weasley call as she pried the blond-haired man off her husband.

"That's Mr. Weasley?" a stunned Harry asked no one in particular. He'd been such a bumbling, kind of humble man that he couldn't imagine what could have caused him to turn violent. The scene was then graced by another blonde, this one none other than Draco Malfoy, which the blonde man grabbed to haul himself up.

"Come, Draco, we're leaving," Mr. Malfoy said straightening his clothes. "Leave those, Dobby," he snapped as a walking pile of books appeared from the crowd around them.

Dobby's family was the Malfoys? No wonder the elf said they'd kill him before selling him; Draco probably would have done the job himself. If his father was anything like him there really might be something dangerous being planned for Hogwarts this year and Draco would probably be in on it.

As soon as the Malfoys' backs were turned Harry gave Dobby a smile and wave. He got one in return, not only from Dobby, who scampered off afterwards, but from Mr. Granger as well who was part of the crowd and started to make his way over. Harry decided to give the Malfoys plenty of time to finish any paperwork at Gringotts, so he and Hermione left the shop to find out what happened.

"If you knew who he was insulting you'd hit him too," Mr. Weasley defended himself as he drew his wife aside, obviously not wanting to air their laundry in public.

Mr. Granger looked rather embarrassed from being so near what went on and eager to avoid any attention. Apparently the man disliked the public spotlight even more than he did himself.

"Dad, what happened?" Hermione asked.

"Apparently, those goose-steppers don't like gingers any more than they like people like us and it came to blows," the odd-haired man said succinctly. "Why don't you two go inside while I try and put out some fires? He's an alright guy, your friend's dad," Mr. Granger said about Mr. Weasley, "and doesn't deserve to be crucified for bloodying that idiot."

Hermione shook her head and quickly became engrossed in a sign by the bookshop's door as Harry watched Mr. Granger make his way over to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. He must've had a way about him because only a few seconds later Mrs. Weasley hugged him about the neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She hadn't even been that welcoming when he had offered to sell them the Burrow.

"Harry, look," Hermione said, pointing at the sign.

_'__Meet Gilderoy Lockhart,_' the sign said. _'Book Signing – Wednesday &amp; Thursday_.'

Harry couldn't help but chuckle.

"What is it?" she asked curiously.

"Well if it's the lilac-loving Lockhart I've heard about," Harry said with a grin, "-let's just say that a lot of people aren't too impressed."

"I've been wondering about him ever since we got our book list," Hermione said with a frown as they went inside.

"Not to worry, Mr. Lockhart," a man said in unctuous tones as they made their way around a crowd of onlookers. "Those troublemakers won't find their way in to disturb you again today, I guarantee you that."

"Well done, Mr. Flourish," a wavy-haired, lilac-draped wizard said as he put his arm around the man and faced the bulk of the crowd, his back to the newcomers. "It was only a pity I couldn't make my way over sooner or I'd've taught them both a lesson they wouldn't soon forget. Am I right?" he asked the ring of book-buyers who clapped sycophantically.

Harry followed Hermione back into the book aisles as Lockhart made his way back to the grotesque desk they had set up for him to use. Once he was there he addressed the crowd again.

"Now you parents shouldn't have any worries about that the sort of thing happening while _I'm_ at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year," the abnormally bright-toothed man said, causing a bit of a stir in the onlookers.

"Did I forget to mention it?" Lockhart asked, teasing things out a bit more. "The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher – is me," he finished with his arms spread as wide as his saccharinely sweet smile, earning another round of twittering approval from the gaggle of witches around him as a cameraman fluttered about taking pictures.

Beside him, Hermione wasn't taking the news nearly so well.

"That's absolutely repellent," she said, snatching up a copy of one of the man's books, _Wandering with Werewolves,_ from a nearby pile and quickly began flipping through it.

If Harry had thought he wouldn't like the man before, now he didn't want to have anything to do with him. Anyone so eager for a bit of attention that they lapped up as much as they could simply had to be avoided, especially if they had wavy-blond hair, immaculately shiny teeth, and robes so garish they were rivaled only by his peacock quill in terms of ostentatiousness.

Even worse was the thought that none of that would matter in the slightest as far as anyone else was concerned; what's done was done, and they were going to be stuck with him all year. Grumbling about torturous teachers, he grabbed one of the werewolf books for himself and started looking for one of the others.

"You can put that back down, Harry," Hermione said unexpectedly as she tossed her copy back on the pile before leafing through another one, _Break with a Banshee_.

Hermione was never one to turn away information but here she was telling him to throw it away, again. He looked at her curiously.

"Don't you see how unethical he's being?" she asked, brow furrowed at him like the time she had caught them sneaking out of the dorms last year. Maybe she and that cat would've gotten on well together after all.

"He's the Defense professor and he assigned seven books that _he _wrote – that he makes money off of – to every Hogwarts second year," Hermione explained, lips scrunching up to match her furrowed brow as the banshee book went back on its pile and she flipped through a new one, _Voyages with Vampires_.

"It's not just second years," Harry said. "It's every year."

Hermione pinned him in place with a look.

"At least Ginny, Ron, the twins, and Percy all have them on their lists," he explained. "I assume everyone else does too."

She snapped the book shut and let it fall to the floor.

"So not only does he force families to buy multiple copies of every book he's ever written-," Hermione said, her hair seeming to inflate as her temper was worked up. "-But worse, all those books are completely narrative in structure."

"So?" Harry asked, curious how the books were written could be worse than the man extorting money from people.

"So?" Hermione echoed disbelievingly. "That's fine for a novel, but not for a textbook," she explained. "If we had to fight a real werewolf we'd have to read through several hundred pages of that book, sorting through a mountain of meaningless information for the tiny clues he left readers to find that hints at how to identify the person in question, and then you'd have to read dozens more for information on how he fought it off."

Harry had to concede her point; it would take too much time to learn anything useful that way. Unfortunately he never got the chance to get a word in edgewise to tell her that he agreed with her before she rolled on.

"In a proper textbook," she continued, "the first part of the werewolf section would probably be a general description of the phenomenon and how it affects the person, along with the general hunting characteristics of the werewolf itself and whether or not it hunts in packs. The identification would probably only take a handful of pages, depending on how complex the problem is, and a few more would focus on how to defend yourself from it."

When he opened his mouth, she continued to roll right over him.

"You wouldn't teach a class using that book you sent me, would you? It'd be equally useless."

Harry opened his mouth again and held it there for a second, just to see if she'd let him speak. It seemed she was finished.

"First off, I agree with you completely," he said, pleased to be included again. "And secondly, I wouldn't want anyone to read books like the one I sent you. The last thing I need is a bunch of little Asian kids following me around calling me 'Doctor Jones.'"

Harry had been hoping the joke would alleviate Hermione's burning desire to burn Lockhart alive and dance around the pyre she built of his books, but his luck didn't seem to be that good.

"Someone should say something about the appalling abuse of power that man just admitted to," she said before turning to go confront their would-be teacher.

Harry had to grab her hand before she charged off.

"Let's not create a scene, please?" he asked quietly. "I'm sure one of the parents would've noticed and there's a newspaper man standing right there asking questions in case they didn't. I think this bookshop's had enough fights for one day."

The hunched look of her shoulders gradually lessened and Hermione reluctantly agreed, but he wouldn't put it past her to give her father an earful on the subject on the trip home, and maybe send a letter to Professor McGonagall to boot.

"Besides," Harry said, "if there's one thing I've learned this summer is that just because something's wrong doesn't mean it's illegal and vice versa."

"So he's just going to get away with it?" she asked indignantly.

"If it's not illegal there's nothing he's getting away with," Harry explained. "And shouting at him certainly won't stop them from selling any more or get anyone their money back. The lists have been out for days, who knows how many people have bought their copies already. We can run it by Lichfield later, if you want, and I'm seeing McGonagall tomorrow; I can mention it to her then."

"When did I become the hothead and you the logical one?" she asked while trying to regain her composure. "That Lichfield must've had an effect on you."

"Er -," Harry said with a shrug. "I guess so."

"Well, we can't just rely on him for our Defense instruction this year though, whether what he's doing is illegal or not," Hermione said definitively. "I looked back over our notes from last year and was shocked at how little course material was actually covered. Compared to the other classes that stack of notes was _tiny_."

"That might've been because the last one had Lord Voldemort growing out the back of his head," Harry said quietly lest he cause a panic.

Spotting the book on hexes and jinxes he wanted to buy last year, Harry took it down and gave it a look.

"An alternate book list?" Hermione asked, looking at what he had picked up. "Might be a bit less serious than I'd prefer but it'd work better than the Chronicles of Indiana Potter and his adventures in Narnia."

Harry groaned. "Must we continue with the Indiana Potter thing?" he asked as she looked through a book on Dark creatures.

"We could always go with the romance novel angle but a bullwhip so much easier to find than a sword," Hermione chuckled. "I could always dye my hair red, rip your shirt half off, and lounge all over you but I don't think my father would approve."

"You might be surprised!" a voice popped up beside them suddenly, shocking them both. It was Hermione's dad. "Have you seen this?" he asked, showing them a book on transfiguring your own teeth. "These people are so mad they make me look sane. I swear they should charge admission. Oh! You think they'd let me buy some robes? I want to go as a wizard to that Halloween party at the hospital that your mother and I always get dragged to. Everyone'll know what I am but only your mother would get the joke. It'll be hilarious."

Harry laughed but Hermione looked at her father like he'd lost his mind, something he thought might be a common occurrence.

"I don't even want to think of you with magic," she said seriously.

"A wand might be a bit much," he nodded, "-but maybe one of those pointed hats!"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"So what are you two up to?" the frizzy-haired man asked.

As Hermione described the 'ethical malfeasance' of their new Defense professor, Harry wondered if he'd have to intervene again. She didn't look ready to storm off to confront the man but sounded very determined to establish 'an alternate curriculum because we shouldn't be expected to condone such inappropriate behavior.'

"And so you shall 'cause no you shouldn't," her father said with a smile. "Damn the Man and fight the power," he said, raising his fist in cheery triumph before spinning around to peruse the wall of books.

"We still have enough money from last time or should we wait until after the bank?" Hermione asked.

"I've got a couple of those bricks left and some of those silver ingots," her father answered. "Though if we may have to saw one of them in half if we need any of those bronze cuff links. But why wait to start judging books by their covers? I always was good at that," he confided to Harry. "I once did an entire term paper at uni just going off of five or six books I plucked off the library shelf at random, though I fudged a bit on the bibliography," he admitted with a wink.

"Dad," Hermione said, scandalized. "That's academic dishonesty. You could've been expelled for that."

"Bah," the man said as he flipped through a book on defensive magical theory. "I was more concerned with the fact that it was already three days late when I started. Got a B though," he said, as if that settled the whole thing.

"And you could have gotten an A if you had done it properly," his daughter chided.

"Well if I had done things properly then I wouldn't have been in the library that day at all," he said, tossing magical theory aside. "Then I never would've seen your mother, never transferred to dentistry, and you never would've been born – so I really don't see what you're complaining about."

Harry looked to Hermione to see if she had a comeback for that but it looked like she had settled for a dignified silence as she checked out the werewolf section of her dark creature book.

"How about this one?" Mr. Granger asked, showing them _'The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_.'

"I think we had that one last year," Harry said.

"Oh, well, I suppose you can use it again then," Mr. Granger said, a bit discouraged. "It's slim pickings other than that. Looks like Lockhart's loathsome legerdemain locked-down literary… lobbyists," he said with a straight face even if he did finish rather weakly.

Before Harry could even fathom how someone could spin a sentence like that on the drop of a hat Hermione interjected.

"I don't think 'lobbyists' goes there," she noted as she added a copy of her dark creature book to the hexes and jinxes he already had.

"Well, not in the _strictest_ sense, no," her father agreed, adding a thin book of dueling basics. "But in context-"

"-In context it means you couldn't think of an L-word for 'rival' and had to abort," she said, determined to puncture her father's balloon as he perused another shelf. "If I were playing – which I'm _not_ – I would have gone for 'license' meaning 'options' instead."

"Yes, well, hindsight is twenty-twenty," he said stuffily. "But you didn't have to spell everything out like that, did you?" he asked rhetorically. "There is such a thing as subtlety."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Ah! Here you go Harry," Mr. Granger said as he plucked another book of the shelf. "A book on the most tenacious enemy you're ever going to face – or if you think of an L-word for a rival and don't want to abort." On top of the other books he placed a copy of _'Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches,_' and gave his daughter a meaningful look.

"OH MY GOD!" Hermione cried, snatching the offending book before Harry even had the chance to react.

"Yes, I know!" Gilderoy Lockhart's silky tones answered as they wafted back from the front of the shop. "Five times in a row, such an honor, really. But nothing the likes of the Order of Merlin, Third Class."

Just as Harry was having a vision of Hermione pulling a Mr. Weasley and attacking her father with that book, his three favorite redheads arrived to save the day.

"Oi! Here he is," Ron told the twins. "Told you that was her voice."

"And we told you that he'd be here," the twin he was pretty sure was George said as Mr. Granger hid himself with _'Practical Runemaking_' and Hermione rid herself of the witch-charming manual.

"Odd choice of reading material there, Hermione," the twin he thought was Fred said as he picked up the odd book. "Especially considering-," he left the rest hanging as he nodded to Harry.

"It's not mine," she said acidly. "And it's not Harry's either," she said to the other one.

George pulled a face and held his hands up in surrender, though Harry thought it might've been to cover the book being covertly slipped into his twin's robes. Harry shook his head in a most Hermione-like way, though he got a wink from the felonious Fred.

"So what are the odds that your dad's been banned from this place?" Harry asked.

"Pretty good," George said, "though Flourish is notoriously forgetful."

"He's banned us for life twice and still lets us in," Fred grinned.

"And what did you do to get ban-," Hermione began scolding before her balloon was quickly popped.

"Puckle," her father said from behind them, drawing the boys' eyes to him.

As cool as a cucumber, the ditsy dentist continued to worm his way through the book he was reading as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"So…," George said to fill the uncomfortable silence that descended. "What do you think about this Lockhart?"

"I think he's being completely unethical," Hermione said. "Making everyone buy his-"

"Puckle," her father said again.

Hermione's shoulders hunched like she _really_ wanted to hit something. The Weasleys' eyes darted between her and the odd muggle man behind them and seemed to collectively decide not to mention him lest Hermione explode on all of them.

"He certainly has a lot of _witches_ around him," Fred said with a casualness Harry admired. "Probably be popular at Hogwarts this year."

"Oh please," Hermione said irritably, shooting daggers at the teacher in question through the bookstore's shelves. "He's not _that_ attractive."

Ron struggled to keep his short snort quiet but all that did was draw the girl's attention.

"While he may have certain aesthetic qualities-," Hermione started.

"Puckle," Mr. Granger said again bravely, drawing a full-strength flared-nose Hermione glare for his comment.

Suddenly Hermione seemed to relax and draw herself up defiantly as she turned to look at Ron.

"I like my hair messy," she stated before darting her hands to Harry's hair and messing it up for all she was worth.

The Weasleys looked at her dumbfoundedly while Harry didn't know what to think. Whatever it was that just happened though must've been right because Mr. Granger just laughed and walked away towards the front of the store.

"Are all muggles this mental?" Ron asked astonished.

"Well we do do everything backwards," Hermione said sarcastically.

With a quick look at Harry that showed a glint in her eye, smiled and turned back to Ron.

"Harry and I have been talking about that uncomfortable event at the end of last term and he seems to think-"

"What happened at the end of term?" Fred asked with a smile like Christmas had come early.

"Nothing happened," Ron said, panicking.

"Oh, well, now we know it's good," George added. "What'd he do?" he asked Hermione.

"Nothing!" Ron cried, trying to physically drag his brothers away. "We're fine," he almost seemed to plead. "Nothing happened at all."

"My mistake," she said, brushing past them with her small stack of books. "I must be imagining things. You know how _mental_ we muggles are. Coming Harry?" she called back to him.

Harry followed behind her thinking that this was shaping up to be a very interesting year.

"I was curious," he heard one plump-looking witch say as she fawned over Lockhart's grotesque desk as Harry stopped to listen. "How was it that you were able to investigate the Wagga Wagga Werewolf when _Voyages With Vampires_ has you in Romania at the same time?"

"Well, as to that," Lockhart said with a smile. "With a wizard as talented and famous as myself, we have acquaintances all over the world; we can't be pestered with ordinary _owls_ dropping in at all hours of the night, we need a more instant and reliable means of communication than just your standard floo," he said with a condescending smirk the surrounding witches didn't see.

"Well," he ostentatious man continued, preening his hair once again. "Once I got the distress call from down below I popped off to Wagga Wagga on the next international portkey. It wasn't noted in _Voyages _because those print people didn't think it 'flowed quite right.' It's clever of you to pick that out. Everyone, let's give her a round of applause," he called to his audience.

Harry got up to the counter just in time to see Mr. Granger add the Practical Runemaking book to Hermione's stack and for her to look up at him quizzically.

"I want to compare them to the Futhark," he said with a bit of a mad grin. "Just to see what those old Vikings were up to."

"My word!" Lockhart's sultry tones washed over the store. "It can't be Harry Potter!"

Harry's eyes rolled uncontrollably as he stifled a groan. The last thing he needed was to be latched on to by some lilac-loving lunatic. He opened his eyes just in time to see the coiffed blonde beckon the photographer over as he swooped down on him.

"Together you and I rank the front page," the man said with a predatory gleam in his eye as he put his arm around Harry's shoulder to lock him in place.

Before he could even think of what to say there was a movement to his left and Lockhart spun away in a lilac colored swirl.

"No hands on the kid, lad," Lichfield's gruff bark of a voice said as he twisted their would-be Defense professor's arm into the middle of his back.

"Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Not the pinky, it hurts!" Lockhart cried as the ever-present cameraman took another photo before Lichfield shoved the man away.

"Get back where you belong, you puffed-up peacock before you get plucked," the litigator growled before he turned to Harry. "You alright?"

"Fine," Harry said relieved.

"Good. You there!" Lichfield pointed at Mr. Flourish. "You hold these books on reserve; we'll be back."

"W-we don't really do that here," the cowardly Mr. Flourish stammered, causing Harry to wonder what he'd done to break up the fight in the first place.

"You do now," the old bailiff barked as he surveyed the scene. "Ready to go?"

"Absolutely," Harry said. "You ready?" he asked Hermione who nodded and looked again at their suddenly weak-chinned professor before shaking her head.

"By the way," he asked as they left the shop with Lichfield and her dad. "What's a Puckle?"

.o0O0o.

**AN:** For anyone who may have caught it, the "leave Dobby alone" bit in the first scene is a reference to the movie version of Chamber of Secrets. If you look at the scene where Lucius Malfoy leaves Dumbledore's office at the end of the movie and listen closely you can actually hear Dobby whimper "Leave me alone" once he gets hit. With him being smacked into the oven like a golf ball I simply had to slip that in too.

Thanks for reading.


	15. Differences

**AN:** It's been said that I border on crack sometimes with my humor. So with that in mind, I wrote this first small section.

.o0O0o.

Barchoke tugged at his tight collar and wiped beads of sweat from his clammy brow as he pored over, and mentally revised, his latest lengthy read. The last several books had certainly proved invigorating to the normally stolid banker and while Lester might think they could hold clues to Dumbledore's plans there was no reason he couldn't recast the characters into something a bit more appropriate.

_[Overseer Barchoke's] eyes blazed like [newly minted galleons]. His gaze seemed to reach into the very heart of [Secretary Trixie's wallet], [claiming it], claiming her. His strong arms circled around her in a [possessive] embrace._

_"Oh [Overseer], you're so [rich]!" [Secretary Trixie] exclaimed. Her [leather armor] was ripped and torn from the [dragon's] heinous claws, her bosom heaving as she seemed to breathe for the first time since he left to [plunder] the fearsome beast['s hoard]._

_"I thought that you'd surely be [squashed]!" she cried, crushing herself against the strong masculine form of her [new master]._

_"Never, while [there are spoils to claim]," [Overseer Barchoke] said as he [smirked triumphantly]. Oh, how he [smirked a smirk] that seemed to fill the entirety of the [dragon pits] with [gold]._

_"Not even [Gringotts most] fearsome beast could keep me from [my due]," [Barchoke chuckled]. "And with [help from the smiths of old], I've slain the beast, and no one will ever need to fear from it [as we feast on its corpse]."_

_The [Secretary] looked down to the [money sack] on [Barchoke's belt]; [it] seemed to [bulge] with the [weight] of [Barchoke's desire] for her until [it threatened to pound her senseless]._

_"Oh [Overseer Barchoke]."_

"Overseer Barchoke?" the secretary asked again, pulling the Overseer out of his read and sending him scrambling to hide the book in his lap and cover it in files as he hunched over to protect himself.

"What? What is it?" he asked the female goblin quickly.

"You wanted to know when Mr. Malfoy left," his secretary reminded him.

"Oh, yes. And?" he said uncertainly.

"Mr. Malfoy's left," she said with a shrug, her scratchy voice cracking a bit as she pointed out the obvious. She sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard; it made the skin on his back crawl in a way that any green-blooded goblin male would find irresistible.

"Right," the Overseer said. "And Litigator Lichfield?"

"He's gone to find Mr. Potter," her voice cracked again, making his shoulders writhe and fingers twitch. "You want me to take care of that?" she asked, pointing to the files in his lap.

"No, no! I'll take them with me," he said quickly, trying to get his mind back on business where it belonged.

"Are you alright there, Boss?" his secretary asked suddenly, eyeing him shrewdly from the doorway as she scratched her head at the base of one of her two puffy pigtails. "You've been kind of odd lately."

"I'm fine. Thank you, Secretary Trixie, that will be all," Barchoke said dismissing her.

As the door to his office closed Barchoke gathered up his files from his lap and placed the book in a drawer containing several others of the same kind. Odd, she said. He's been acting odd for so long others now thought him odd when he wasn't acting odd any more. If he'd been a normal banker he would have gotten involved with his secretary years ago and had a brood of little goblins trying to kill each other by now.

Bank fraud. Embezzlement. Conspiracy. Coercion. Torture. Profit. Death. Rebellion. World Domination!

His mind back on business, Overseer Barchoke left his office.

.o0O0o.

"The Puckle," Hermione said as she walked beside Harry towards the gleaming white bank.

"–Also called the Dreaded Doctor Puckle," her father interrupted, giving Harry his spooky–eyes and wiggly-finger combo to suitably exaggerate his point that the whole thing was nonsense.

'–Stands for Doctor Monica J. Puckle," she continued as if nothing had happened. "She's a rather accomplished oral and maxillofacial surgeon."

Harry looked at her quizzically.

"She also happens to be my mother," she admitted finally.

"Oh," he said uncomfortably, probably remembering what she'd said about the strained relationship there. "I thought you said that both your parents were dentists."

"You still using that old line?" her father asked cheerily behind her.

"Technically they are," she said. "It's just easier to imply they're both the same than to explain that my dad caps teeth while my mother rearranges jaws after they've been shattered in collisions."

"So when he said that she was the doctor in the family–?"

"He meant a proper doctor," Hermione explained. "Dentists aren't called doctor, didn't you know that?"

"The Dursleys didn't care about my teeth enough for me to know," he confided in her.

"Well then," her father said happily, "we should make you an appointment."

"Dad, they have magic," Hermione said quickly before the mad old dentist could start digging through Harry's mouth in the middle of the street. "If he really needs cavities filled then Madam Pomfrey could probably fix them in a heartbeat."

"But why would he want it done quickly and painlessly when it can be done with drills?" he asked with an odd look on his face. "Next you'll be saying that you don't want big bulky braces to take care of your teeth."

Hermione felt guilty and kept quiet rather than admit the truth. The silence stretched for a moment before he gave her a scratch on the top of her head like she were some kind of humanoid cat.

"Don't tell your mother," he said.

She couldn't help but shake her head. She should've expected that; he always did the opposite of what people expect. Suddenly she was more committed than ever to keep him away from Ron; her dad would only confirm everything he'd ever thought about muggles and it'd be impossible to convince him that her father was a fluke.

Harry stopped dead in his tracks. "Where's Malfoy going?" he asked, looking off to one side.

Hermione turned to see Draco and his father disappear down a certain side street she had no intention of ever going down again.

"That's nowhere you want to be," the grizzled elderly man she assumed was Lichfield said, giving Harry a poke to the side of the head as if to keep him from running off to investigate.

"Oh!" Harry said suddenly. "Hermione, this is Lichfield. Lichfield, this is Hermione – and her dad. Sorry," he said to her father, "I didn't catch your name."

"Yes, Hermione seems to have forgotten it; everyone calls me Dan," he said, shaking Lichfield's hand. "He's right though," he said to Harry as they started moving again. "That's not a place I'd like to go again."

Lichfield looked at him curiously. "What were you doing in Nockturn Alley?"

"We got turned around on our last trip and ended up there," her father explained. "One look at all those skulls and we knew that we weren't in Kansas anymore. For a minute there I thought we were going to get mugged."

"A muggle like you was lucky not to get killed," the grizzled old lawyer said.

"Yes, it did look particularly dodgy," her father smiled, safe and warm in the bright sunshine of Diagon Alley. "We prefer the term 'non–magical' though; 'muggle' sounds way too diminutive to be respectful."

"Huh," the man named Lichfield grunted appraisingly as they walked through the bank's front doors. "Never thought about what non–magical people would want to be called. I'll try to remember that."

Her father smiled and gave her his thumbs–up gesture as if to say 'score one for positive social change.' Somehow she doubted that Slytherin house would become civil just from a few people adopting the phrase 'non–magical people,' but she supposed it'd isolate the bigots from everyone else, assuming there was an everyone else in Slytherin house.

"Well, Sweetie, I suppose we should pick a teller and wait in line so we can get some Fun Bricks," her father said to her as if this was all some amusement park scheme to get you to exchange real money for fake money and they weren't standing in the middle of one of the four most powerful wizarding institutions in the country.

"Actually, sir," Harry said politely. "I was wondering if Hermione could come with us. I promised her that she could meet a friend of mine and it would keep me from having to tell her everything later."

"Not sure how long it'll be," the gruff–looking Lichfield said, "but we might be able to get you a deal, one of the head fun brick makers is just up ahead. How often do you get to see one of them?"

Hermione shook her head; she was starting to believe that she was the only person who ever took things seriously. They were talking about the goblins that run the bank like they were some kind of Oompa Loompa. Feeling more than a little soiled by the idea of singing and dancing goblins in silly costumes and make up Hermione followed along, hoping they'd be able to sit down and talk about things logically without her father jostling things about just because he could. It probably wouldn't be so bad if just once someone did it to him instead.

The goblin in question was standing next to a bronze door on the side of the room looking through some files and wearing a suit her father would've poured something on just for the excuse to take it off and wear something else.

"Ah, there you are," he said absently as he glanced at Harry. "We're on sub-level one today. This way."

"The girl's coming with us," Lichfield interjected.

"Hm?" the bald goblin asked, looking up at them for the first time.

In an instant a stony look appeared in the goblin's eye and he smiled without any sort of warmth.

"My apologies, I was unaware we'd have visitors. I am Overseer Barchoke in charge of Hereditary Accounts here at Gringotts," he said professionally, extending his hand to her.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she replied taking his hand, glad to finally meet someone as serious as she was. "And this is my father," she gestured over to him.

A curious look crossed the goblin's face as he looked up at her dad.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you in here again," the goblin said finally.

Hermione thought she saw a crack appear in her father's normally cartoonish exterior as everyone's eyes focused on him.

"You have a remarkably good memory," her father told the goblin before turning to her with a smile. "See, Honey? It must be the teller from last time. He remembered us."

"It can't be," she told him. "That goblin had hair."

"Hermione," her father scolded, "you can't just blurt out that the ma– Oh, I'm sorry," he turned back to the goblin. "I almost called you a 'man.' It's an interchangeable word for us meaning a male person. It just occurred to me though that it might be offensive to you. Do you have a word you'd prefer me to use?"

"'Goblin' will do fine," the goblin looked at him quizzically.

"You can't just blurt out that the goblin's gone bald, it's rude," her father said as if nothing had happened.

Lichfield coughed into his hand and if Harry's face was anything to go by both of them were struggling not to laugh.

"I must apologize for my daughter," her dad told the goblin. "This is only our second trip and we are strangers to your ways. I fear she's a bit too much like her mother at times."

Hermione shot him her most fierce glare. That was uncalled for; she was simply stating a fact.

"I haven't been a teller in quite some time," the suited goblin said. "Are you sure we haven't met before? Your face is very familiar."

"Okay, this is getting kind of scary," her father said with his hands up in front of himself and looking rather unnerved. "I know I have one of those faces that everyone thinks looks like someone else but this is the third time it's happened since we got here, and that's only been like an hour or so."

Hermione had never given it a second thought but people had been making that mistake a lot lately. Even professor McGonagall had thought that he looked like someone she knew, and that was impossible. She supposed that her father might have some sort of doppelganger except one of him was bad enough, she couldn't imagine there being two of him.

_'It'd be Fred and George squared_,' she thought to herself.

"My mistake," the goblin said. "I just recalled that the wizard I'm thinking about was reported dead twenty years ago. The resemblance is uncanny."

Flipping open a file and scribbling something down, the goblin turned back to her.

"For the record, is it simply Hermione Granger or is there a middle name as well?" he asked.

"Jane" she answered him at the same time her father said "Jean."

The goblin looked back and forth between them but it was Harry who spoke.

"You have two middle names?" he asked.

"I have one middle name," she replied stuffily. "It's Jane."

"Jean," her father interrupted again and she shot him a look.

"My mother says it's Jane, he says it's Jean," she explained.

"Jane sounds so boring," her father complained.

"Yes, and naming me Hermione wasn't enough to make me stand out," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "And since my middle name is supposed to be the same as hers–"

"So what is _her_ middle name?" the goblin asked with an expression that suggested that they were being intentionally difficult.

"Je–" her father started to say before she rolled over him.

"She doesn't know," she said firmly. "She was adopted and the paperwork she has only has the middle initial J. It could be Jane, or Jean, or even the remains of her birth surname, so it could be Jones, Johnson, or–"

"Jørgensen," her father cheerily added. "What? You think Norwegian's crossing the line?"

Hermione rolled her eyes again.

"Right. Hermione J. Granger," the goblin said, adding a note to his file.

"Johnson?" Harry asked with a smile. "So you could be related to Angelina?"

"Probably not, unless the connection goes back several hundred years," she answered with a smile of her own. "I suppose we could share a philandering grandfather, but I highly doubt that's the case."

"If you're interested in researching any connections you may have to the wizarding world," the Overseer said to her. "I oversee the Office of Latent Legacy Lineages, a small department that searches for possible inheritors for inactive accounts. Nothing is guaranteed, of course, and even if a connection is found you may not stand to inherit anything, but with records going back almost a thousand years it could give you something to go on."

Hermione had never thought of doing a wizarding genealogy. She had always thought doing magic could be a next step in evolution, a quirk of brain structure, or a fluke of genetics – much like her hair – though the idea of a magical gene is rather preposterous, but to actually have a real historical connection to the wizarding world would be tremendous.

"Yes, and if you ask nicely," her father said, "he could sell you London Bridge, the Crown Jewels, and the ripped up parole papers of Jean Valjean."

Instantly the goblin's eyes pinned her father with its beady stare.

"Did you have any other business to conduct here today, sir?" he asked as he showed a pointed–toothed smile.

"He needed to convert some non–magical money into galleons," Lichfield said quickly.

Without even waiting for her father to concur the goblin's head whipped to the side and he pointed at another goblin. "Griphook!"

"Yes, Overseer?" the other goblin said, setting down an armload of clanking metallic objects on a nearby bench and scurrying over.

"Convert his muggle money," the Overseer commanded.

"Er – Sir? I–I'm not a teller," the other goblin said uncertainly.

"Are you turning down an opportunity to make amends for an incomplete report and possibly earn a promotion?" the Overseer asked quickly.

"Oh! No sir!" the new goblin exclaimed.

"Then attend to this muggle–"

"Actually, they prefer the term 'non–magical person,'" Lichfield chose to levelly add to this tense moment.

"Do they?" the suited goblin asked with a glance to the grizzled old lawyer before turning back to the newest goblin. "Attend to this muggle, SRP1."

"I really think I should go along with my daughter," her father said uncertainly.

With a snap of the Overseer's fingers two surly-looking goblins in scarlet and gold moved to flank him.

"Muggles are not permitted off this level," the head goblin told her father tersely. "You are welcome to wait in the sitting area over there–," he jabbed to a scattered clump of chairs by the front doors, "–when your business is concluded, but if you take one step closer to any other door then you will be forced to leave. Take her below if she's going; I'll meet you there momentarily," he finished to Lichfield before walking off in a different direction.

In the tense stillness that followed Hermione really didn't know what to do. She didn't want to leave her dad alone with a bunch of angry goblins, wanted to know what was going on with Harry, didn't want this day to end horribly, and didn't want to have to pick sides.

"I'll look after her," Lichfield said with a soothing gesture to her father.

Her father seemed to grasp that maybe he had gone a little too far this time; finally meeting someone who liked pranks even less than she did and had the ability to bite back. He eventually nodded and motioned for her to go.

"I'll just be – sitting out here," he told her as he took the bag holding her new school books. "Let me know if she gets into trouble or runs off and gets married, will you?" he asked Lichfield.

Did her father have to be embarrassing even when contrite?

"If she finds a nice goblin between now and then I'll let you know," the lawyer replied, "but Barchoke's always had other things on his mind to be interested."

With that bit of a roadblock behind them, she followed Harry and Lichfield through the bronze door and hoped that that would be the end of those particularly awkward situations.

.o0O0o.

"What's SRP1?" Harry asked as they descended the slowly winding stairs of unfinished stone, hoping to get things back on an even keel. He didn't know what Hermione thought after the exchange with her father and certainly didn't want to see this trip ruined. "Is that a title or something?"

"It stands for Standard Rate Plus One," Lichfield said with a bit of a chagrined look as he led them down. "I'd been hoping to get them a better conversion rate since the girl's a friend of yours but now that he's insulted Gringotts he'll be paying out the nose for quite a while."

Harry chanced a look at his – er – female friend to gauge her reaction to this bit of news, what he saw was a torn expression.

"My–my father sometimes lacks the filter that tells you that now is not an appropriate time to joke," she said finally.

"Standing in the lobby of Gringotts and chatting with an Overseer in full view of two dozen or more goblins is certainly not the time to call them all crooks," Lichfield said dryly.

"Well, if it gets him to understand that some people don't like constant jokes at their expense then I guess paying an extra pound per galleon isn't too bad," Hermione conceded.

"That's not what 'plus one' means, unfortunately," he admitted.

"Then what does it mean?" Harry asked.

"That he's been bumped up an entire Trading Tier," Lichfield said as they approached an old iron door. "He's being treated the same as some big foreign investor from Germany, Italy, or France," he explained. "He'll end up paying close to fifteen per galleon today."

"Fifteen!" Hermione asked shocked. "Last time he paid five for a galleon."

"He's paying five for the galleon, five for the insult, and five to continue doing his banking with us, because there's no other business that'll change out money," the old man replied.

"Isn't that rather unfair?" Harry asked, trying to smooth things over.

"Well," the grizzled old bailiff said as he led them through the door to a roughly cut hallway, its torches casting fluttering shadows across the uneven surface. "If he hadn't done something Barchoke would've been out of a job in an hour or so, which would have left us in a lot of hot water."

"He did that to save his job?" Hermione asked revolted.

Lichfield turned to look at her.

"He saved his job, your boyfriend's court case, and your father's head," he said as roughly as his gruff voice allowed before going on normally. "It was his misfortune today that an Overseer was there – most of the time you never even see them unless there's a problem – but he was lucky it was Barchoke. Our Overseer of Security would've killed him and threw his body in the street as a warning to others."

"That's totally barbaric!" Hermione said with a horrid expression on her face.

"So is telling a room full of goblins that everything they, their families, and their entire kind has done is disreputable and they're nothing more than common thieves," Lichfield said with a look that looked particularly menacing in the flickering torchlight from the wall bracket.

"And the Ministry just lets them get away with this?" she asked the question that had popped into Harry's mind too.

"They hold Gringotts and all its adjoining territories to be the sovereign domain of the Goblin Nation," the old bailiff informed her. "The goblins might discard the very idea as offensive when they want to but they'll just as soon latch onto it if it lets them do what they want, and that's what your father did – he marched right into the heart of the Goblin Nation and called them all slimy panhandlers."

Hermione had one of those looks he'd last seen on Ron, where the person was looking inward and trying hard to see things from another person's point of view.

"Different creatures have different ways of looking at things, and the goblins are more bristly than most," Lichfield continued. "You can't go around treating everyone like they're human and have your sensibilities or your stay in the wizarding world will either be rough or short."

"The centaurs were the same way," Harry said, suddenly reminded of something from last year.

"What were you doing with centaurs?" Lichfield asked, his bemused grin doing odd things to his face in the flickering light.

"I had a detention and got separated from everyone else," Harry said embarrassed. "A centaur found me and brought me back," he continued. "The other centaur, Bane, didn't like that too well since I was riding on Firenze's back; he called him a 'common mule.'"

"I've read about them but haven't had any dealings with centaurs," Lichfield admitted as he led them to an iron door a little ways down the hall. "They don't use money. But they're an odd people from what I've heard; more prideful but less prone to violence unless pressed. It's their pride that keeps them as Beasts."

"Beasts? How can something capable of intelligent thought be a beast?" Hermione asked as Harry sensed her outrage level rising again.

"Because they demanded to be a beast," Lichfield replied. "Merpeople – merfolk? – are the same way. They refused the Ministry classification of Being because they thought it offensive to be classified the same as vampires and hags – or humans," he finished with a look as he waved them inside a small stone room.

"But why would anyone not want to be equals?" a confused Hermione asked.

"Because they're different," Lichfield explained as he changed the room's roughhewn furniture into something more comfortable with a wave of his wand. "And that difference defines them; no amount of wishing them to be the same will make them so, or want to be so. You have to accept them on their own terms or things will be even more difficult than they already are."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Take your friends, the centaurs," Lichfield said as he picked a chair around the plain wooden table and settled into it with a groan. "They're migratory; their herd roams around, splits up, and scatters to wherever the wind takes them before they gather back up again," the old bailiff said, painting a verbal picture for him.

"This brings them into close contact with muggl–non–magical people," Lichfield corrected himself as they found their own chairs. "That creates a problem for the Ministry, who then tries to solve that problem by restricting where the centaurs can roam – but the centaurs don't want anything to do with us; they see themselves as a separate people – and better than us, from what I've been told – so they disregard the Ministry and do what they want, which only causes more problems."

"So how does treating them as different solve the problem?" Hermione asked. "Shouldn't they be expected to obey the same laws as everyone else?"

"Why should they when they have no input on the laws?" Lichfield countered. "Remember, they're Beasts, which – by definition – lack the intellect to understand or shape the laws that govern them, and they're Beasts by choice. They reject the Ministry so what's the Ministry supposed to do? What would _you_ do?" he asked, putting her on the spot.

"I'd put them in all relevant legislative bodies and give them the same rights, privileges, and obligations as everyone else," Hermione said determinedly. "It'd have them buy into the society and make them feel like a welcome and accepted addition."

"Youthful idealism," Lichfield said with a grin that said that everything she wanted was never going to happen. "Goblins have wanted that for almost a thousand years, even fighting to get those rights you so casually give away. It still hasn't happened," he said dryly.

"But just for the sake of argument," he continued as a way to head off her incoming objection, "even if you got the Ministry to offer all of that: wand use, access to Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, representation in the Wizengamot and the Committee for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, even a shot at being Minister of Magic – the centaurs still don't want it; they want to be left alone. What then?"

"That sounds like an outright rejection of the basic social contract," Hermione said.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied, "but that sounds about right. So what do you do?"

Harry glanced over at Hermione; she really seemed at a loss.

"What would you do?" she asked, turning it around on him.

"Me? I'd put the needs of the centaurs above the willy–nilly wants of the mug–non–magical population," Lichfield replied. "They have the vast majority of the country just given over to their use, which squeezes us into an ever–more tiny area. I'd negotiate with the centaurs to come up with a set territory that could be their sovereign domain and then rig it up with charms to repel non–magical people, provided that they stay in those areas. It recognizes the separation they want and deals with the Ministry having to constantly cover up for them."

Like all solutions too good to be true, Harry knew where this was going.

"So tell us why this won't work either," he said to the bailiff.

"Because they're Beasts, not Beings," Lichfield said with a grin. "And you can only negotiate with Beings. Even with a solution that gives them everything they want, who knows if you could ever get them to take it, because taking it means getting them to agree that they're on the same level as vampires, hags, and humans."

"So you're saying there's no solution," Hermione said.

"I'm saying the solution is to recognize the differences and to accept people on their own terms," Lichfield reiterated. "If we can recognize their right to be left alone and have nothing to do with us then they should be willing to accept us and our terms, even if they fundamentally reject what it implies about them and their self–worth, because their classification with us ultimately makes no difference to their day–to–day life if all we're going to be doing afterwards is ignoring each other. Merlin knows if you can get them to see that though."

As Hermione looked to be trying to incorporate this crash course in wizarding world diplomacy the door opened and Barchoke strode in, carrying even more files than he had before. Lichfield made to say something but it was Hermione that spoke first.

"Would someone really have killed my dad for what he said?" she asked stiffly.

"Yes," Barchoke replied tersely. "I considered it as well, but then I'd have these two pissed off at me–," he gestured to Harry and Lichfield as he made his way to the last seat at the table. "And I didn't want to be dragged into a fracas with the Ministry for doing what's been done before."

"How many times did you walk up and down that back hallway before you calmed down?" Lichfield asked.

"Who said I'm calm?" the Overseer replied, drawing a nervous look from Hermione.

"No salsa dancers today?" Harry asked, hoping to lessen the tension.

"No need; this room's warded," Barchoke replied, pointing up to a line of strange symbols and odd squiggles that ran the around entire room just below the ceiling. "Everything above ground is considered each individual's personal responsibility."

"It's one of the benefits of meeting in an old torture chamber," Lichfield said, drawing an even more pronounced look from Hermione. "They only torture each other now," he said placatingly.

"Are those the same symbols used in enchanting?" Harry asked, trying to deflect things away from the grizzly subject matter.

"No," Lichfield said appraisingly. "Those look like an older goblin rune form, don't know what they do, but I could guess."

"Keep sound in," Barchoke said as he pointed to the far side of the decorative line. "Deter intruders, prevent death by blood loss, enhance pain – or truth," he added with a nebulous wiggle of his hand. "That one's kind of fuzzy; truth hurts. Just the basics over and over again really."

Barchoke took a moment to arrange his stack of files on the table just so.

"So, how far have you gotten?" he asked.

"Nowhere," Lichfield replied, "We were talking about centaurs until you came in."

Barchoke looked at him like he had lost his mind.

"I told you," the old bailiff said, raising his hands in surrender. "It's the boy's fault. Charlus did the same thing; it was amazing we ever got anything done."

"Do you have Dobby?" Harry asked, wanting to get this issue out there first before they get drowned by everything else.

"He's downstairs asleep," Barchoke said as he picked out a file and looked through it. "Passed out almost as soon as the papers were signed. He looked like his family has been overworking him."

"That's horrible," Hermione said.

"That's actually a good thing," Lichfield said, drawing a confused look from Hermione. "They probably did it to squeeze every drop of work they could from the little guy before he left, and that's horrible–"

"–So is what he's wearing," Barchoke interjected.

"But the extra work should keep him feeling well through the transition to his new family," Lichfield continued. "With you being at the Weasleys," he said to Harry, "you won't have to worry about giving him something to do, so I'd just let him rest up until he feels up to it."

"Wait, I don't understand," Hermione interrupted. "How can you say that overworking a child is a good thing? It's abuse."

Lichfield's eyebrows shot towards the ceiling and he gave Harry a curious look.

"You didn't tell your little cuddle–bunny about Dobby?" he asked, causing Harry's face to feel like it was on fire.

"I didn't want Dobby to get into trouble," Harry finally managed to croak, determinedly not looking anywhere near Hermione. "Just knowing his name and what his family was like was enough for you to find him, so I kept as much secret as I could in case our letters were intercepted again."

"That's actually a very good idea," Lichfield said as he gave Barchoke an odd look; the Overseer had crammed his fingers in his ears and was beginning to hum. "Oh," he said with a shake of his head as he turned back to Harry. "You said 'intercepted again' which implied they were intercepted before, which in turn implied that Dobby was the one who intercepted them."

"But Dobby was the one who intercepted them," Harry said confused.

"Which is why he's humming," Lichfield gestured to Barchoke.

"Oh, right," Harry said, finally catching on.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"He's required to report anything illegal," Harry said, finally looking at her again as if Lichfield hadn't said anything awkward before, though the thought of cuddling up with her was now firmly planted in his head – well, once she stopped looking so stern that is. "Dobby stopping my letters and coming to warn me were both illegal, not to mention everything he did that helped my escape. Doing this means he doesn't have to hear it and report anything."

"I suppose that's better than killing you and throwing your body in the street," she said with a disapproving look at the goblin. "But that still doesn't answer the question."

"Dobby's not a child," Harry said with a shrug as Lichfield gave Barchoke a poke. "He's a house–elf."

"What's a house–elf?" she asked, still with her stern look. "And why does that make a difference with how he's treated?"

Lichfield raised his eyebrow and gave her a look as if to say, 'What did we just talk about?' Hermione caught the look and revised her tone.

"Could you tell me more about house–elves? I've never heard of them before," she said neutrally.

"They're – er–," he started, rather at a loss on how to explain what he's learned so far. "They're a kind of magical little person that works for a wizarding family," Harry said finally. "Kind of like Santa Claus with his elves – only without the sleigh."

"Are they paid?" Hermione asked still seeming to struggle with keeping the edge out of her voice. "Do they have sick–leave, vacations, time off, or health and dental? Or are they Beasts as well?" she finished with a glance at Lichfield.

"I happen to have one," Lichfield replied, "and I certainly wouldn't call her a Beast. I call her Mipsy, because that's her name."

"And do you pay her?" Hermione repeated.

"The better question would be, 'Does she want to be paid?'" Lichfield countered. "After all, you didn't know her entire race existed five minutes ago and haven't even met one yet, so how could you know what they want? Or are you making the mistake of treating them like humans again?"

As Hermione's brow furrowed and lips pursed as she endeavored to come up with another line of attack, Barchoke already knew exactly what to say.

"I know I always get on to you two about going off like this," the goblin said in an aside to Harry. "But this is actually rather entertaining. If it didn't take him away from Gringotts I'd say he should be teaching an introduction to the magical world course at Hogwarts."

"I'd just be happy if they had the course at all," Harry replied.

"What do they teach you up there?" the goblin asked with an odd look.

"Did you ever do chores at home?" Lichfield asked Hermione. "Feeding the chickens, mopping the floor, that sort of thing?"

"I've done the dishes and vacuumed before, why?" she replied, the curious and guarded look on her face saying that she wondered where he was going with this; Harry thought he knew.

"And were you paid?" the old bailiff asked.

"I was given an allowance," she said.

"So your parents allowed you to have money every once in a while," Lichfield clarified. "But you still had to follow their rules and do the work they told you to, even though you weren't technically paid for it," he pressed.

"That's different," Hermione insisted, "we're talking about employees."

Lichfield turned and pointed at Harry; somehow he'd known that he'd be dragged back into this.

"Those elves that made your shoes," Lichfield said. "What did that shopkeeper call them?"

"He called them family," Harry mumbled, running a hand through his hair to flatten it unnecessarily.

"And do you plan on treating Dobby like he's family?" Lichfield unexpectedly pressed him.

"Wha–? Of course!" Harry defended himself. "He's the whole reason I'm here. If it weren't for him I'd still be at the Dursleys, Dumbledore'd be stealing from me, and–," he chanced a look over at Hermione. "If he hadn't given me those letters, I never would've known what you had said at all."

Harry knew at once that he had made the point that Lichfield had wanted him to, but seeing that dispirited look on Hermione's face made him wish he hadn't. After their brief conversation in the pet shop he doubted she's say a thing against his desire for more family.

"But," she said, though it didn't sound like her heart was in it. "Isn't that making the mistake of treating them like they're human?"

"It's treating them like they want to be treated," Lichfield said, though not unkindly. "They want to be a family, they want to be taken in and made to feel welcome, it's what they deserve," he said in a way that had Harry wondering if Lichfield was settling into another one of his funks. His concern was short–lived though as the old bailiff glanced up at Hermione with a bit of a grin and he began wondering what sort of prank the old man was planning to pull.

"But if you think about it," Lichfield said as he studied the girl in front of him. "They are paid, in a way, even if it's not with money. They get a place to stay, a roof over their head and something to eat, and ideally made to feel like a welcome part of the family," he explained. "For this free room, board, and company they return the generosity by doing whatever work they can for the family."

"But they shouldn't have to work like that if they don't want to," Hermione said.

"And you shouldn't have to breathe," Lichfield countered. "But that won't stop you from passing out if you tried to quit. You take away a house–elf's work and family and they'll be dead before you know it."

"How could that possibly be true?" Hermione asked, the very idea seemed strange to Harry as well. "How many elves have you seen die that way?"

"Four," Lichfield said without missing a beat. "It would've been five but one of them managed to pull through, and that took a lot of work. As strange as it seems, house–elves need to work as much as they need a family – no one knows why–"

Barchoke looked down and fiddled with his files again.

"–But that's likely the reason they swear themselves and their family to serve a wizarding one for as long as they'll have them," Lichfield continued.

"But that's slavery!"

"That's the closest term we have for it, sure," the old bailiff agreed. "But look at what they get in return. By swearing to serve not just one person but an entire group of people – that's a lot of need to go around. That makes it a perfect environment for raising a little house–elf family, doesn't it? And if that human family grows and the kids go off to form their own families, that's a perfect route for the house–elf family to do so too while still sticking to that family."

"Th–that," Hermione sputtered, "that makes it sound like they're some sort of magical parasite that sucks up work instead of blood."

"Maybe they are," he replied with an amused look on his face and a shrug. "But letting them do our laundry seems like a small thing to sacrifice when we're talking about letting their entire race continue on for another generation."

"That's not to say there isn't abuse," he continued. "Dobby is proof that it can happen, even if most people treat house–elves like the children they seem to be. If you want a righteous cause, if you want to go off and change the world for the better, use that, fight that, and you might even get house–elves to support the measure. If you try to force them all to be free and find paying jobs like adult humans though, then you're going to have a fight on your hands because that's the worst thing that could ever happen to them."

"So what's going to happen to Dobby's old family?" Hermione asked, her fiery passion for justice reignited again. "Are they going to be punished for how they treated him?"

"No," Lichfield said neutrally. "What they did was horrible, but that doesn't mean it's illegal. What's going to happen is that they get paid for their loss and Harry's gain."

"You're _buying_ Dobby?" Hermione asked Harry with a scandalized look on her face. "That _is_ slavery."

"Then what should I do, give him back to the Malfoys?" Harry retorted. "You were the one that said getting him away is the right thing to do. Why does that change if this is how I have to do it?"

"His family was the Malfoys?" Hermione asked and Harry knew he had scored a point on the issue.

"It's a good thing there wasn't a non–disclosure agreement in this," Barchoke said flipping through his file.

"You can look at it as paying for Dobby if you want," Lichfield said. "They certainly see it that way. I prefer to see it is as an acknowledgement, in rough and admittedly arbitrary human terms, that having a house–elf adds value to a family. Everything they do, each meal they prepare, each sock they wash, is a service they render to that family. All Harry's money is doing is reimbursing the Malfoys for losing those services for the rest of Dobby's life while he, in turn, gains them. Where the house–elf resides then becomes a moot issue."

Harry had to admit, as horrible as having to pay the Malfoys anything was, thinking of it that way didn't seem so bad.

He was drawn from his thoughts by quick repeated _thud_s on the iron door and a goblin sticking their head inside. It certainly looked different than any other goblin he'd ever seen, the facial features were less pronounced, the nose and ears smaller, but it could've been the two puffy pigtails it kept its hair in that screamed that the goblin was female.

"Secretary Trixie?" Barchoke asked with a bit of a shocked look on his face as Lichfield glanced up at the decorative line of runes along the ceiling. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry to interrupt, Overseer Barchoke," the new arrival said lieu of a greeting. "But it's awake and bouncing around the entire office," Harry silently cringed as her voice cracked, sending shivers down his spine in the most uncomfortable way. "We really want to get him outta there."

"Yes, yes," Barchoke said with a wave, "send him in."

The goblin secretary left as quickly as her feet could carry her, leaving the door ajar.

"You sure that thing is charged?" Lichfield asked, pointing up to the line of runes.

"Should be," the Overseer replied, glancing up at them. "It does say 'deter intruders' and not 'prohibit' so maybe that elf is causing enough problems that it let her enter."

For a moment Harry was worried Hermione would question why there weren't any female goblins working where people could see them but his concern was quickly quashed when he saw a fleshy blur fly past the door and have to double back. Dobby ran into the room with the biggest grin Harry had ever seen.

"Harry Potter!" the delighted elf cried excitedly, still in his grubby old pillowcase. "Harry Potter said Dobby would see him again and now Dobby has!"

"How are you, Dobby, are you feeling alright?" he asked, concerned for the little elf's health. Now that he was closer Harry noticed that the house-elf had large circles under his eyes.

"Dobby is very tired, sir," Dobby nodded. "Dobby's been given ever so much work."

"Once he finishes with this form," Lichfield said as he slid the appropriate form closer to Harry and Barchoke produced a Blood Quill, quill, and ink from a suit pocket. "Harry can let you go get some rest."

"But Harry Potter will have work for Dobby!" the elf said as Harry made his scratch with the Blood Quill, his slight wince drawing a concerned look from Hermione. "Wash his clothes, make his lunch, clean his room-"

"And how do you feel about doing all this work, Dobby?" Hermione asked as Secretary Trixie huffed up to the room and with a look shut the door on them as if to lock the house-elf inside.

"Dobby, this is Hermione," Harry said by way of introduction. "She's my – er – friend."

"Harry Potter is a great wizard, miss," Dobby said to her, blinking oddly from lack of sleep. "Such an honor it is to be his elf."

"And you're not concerned that you'll be his slave?" she pressed as Harry signed his name.

"Oh, no, miss, no!" Dobby's bat-like ears whipped back and forth as he shook his head, though he had to grab hold of the table to steady himself afterwards. "Dobby's always been that, miss, but now Dobby gets to serve Harry Potter's family, so Dobby can see him whenever he wants!"

"But wouldn't you rather be free?"

Dobby hugged himself and seemed to cringe at the very thought.

"Dobby would rather be free-," the little elf said as Harry stopped short of pulling his wand to finish the form. "Better free than go back to his family, miss. They – they are bad evil dark wizards!"

The house-elf's eyes popped and his hands flew to his mouth as if to stuff the words back inside. The next instant he cried, "Bad Dobby!" and darted to the table. Harry had been watching for something like this and managed to get his hand between Dobby's head and the table.

"Not 'bad Dobby,'" Harry said as he scooted the elf's head further away. "The Malfoys are 'bad evil dark wizards.' It's not bad to say so, and you shouldn't punish yourself either way," he told the elf.

He glanced over at Hermione before continuing.

"If you want to be free, I'll free you. You don't have to go back to the Malfoys."

Once again the groggy elf shook his head.

"Oh, no sir!" Dobby said. "Better free than there, but better to serve Harry Potter than to be free!" the elf said with a grin.

Harry really didn't know how to respond to that. What do you say to someone who'd rather be your slave than to be free, thank you? He looked over to Hermione, wondering what she thought about this. She seemed lost in thought so he poked her knee, drawing her attention. His question must've been written on his face because after a moment she shrugged with a troubled look on her face. For once she didn't seem to know what the right answer was either. Given everything that's happened, that was probably the best he could hope for.

Not knowing anything else he could do, Harry put his wand to the form and felt the pulse of magic that sealed Dobby's fate. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Congratulations," Lichfield said as he swirled the Blood Quill in a glass of water Harry hadn't seen him conjure. "You now have the most expensive house-elf in the history of Gringotts."

Harry looked down at the form he just signed, back to where the total amount to be transferred was, it didn't seem that much.

"That's ten times more than my shoes cost," he said disbelievingly. That seemed like such a small amount to pay for a person. He didn't know if the Malfoys didn't really value Dobby at all or if they were price gouging him. Dobby, on the other hand, took this in a completely different way.

"Dobby's worth more than shoes?" the little elf said, his bulbous eyes growing to the size of saucers.

"Dobby's worth more than ten pairs of shoes," Harry agreed as Barchoke stamped the form and it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

He wondered vaguely where it went and whether it was now that secretary's job to deal with. Harry turned back to see Dobby's smile had returned and he figured that he might as well go all the way.

"And I'm glad for every knut I paid because to me you're worth twice that much," he said with a smile.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle as Dobby's jaw dropped and threatened to go through the floor as the little elf stood in awe of what he just said.

"Master Harry is so good to Dobby!" the elf cried as he ran up to hug his leg.

Harry glanced over to where Hermione sat to see what she thought now, there couldn't be any doubt that Dobby did look truly happy with what happened. She sat studying the elf with her brow furrowed, no doubt wondering how anyone could genuinely want to be enslaved.

While his first thought on getting Dobby had been to find out more about this plot by the Malfoys, with those big circles under his eyes Harry knew that his first responsibility was to look after his elf; there'd be time to question Dobby later.

"Alright Dobby," Harry said as he peeled the little elf off his leg. "I've got something very important for you to do for me."

"Anything, Master Harry," the tired elf smiled.

"First, you're family now," Harry said. "That means no calling me 'master.' You called me Harry before so you can call me Harry now. Think you can do that?"

"Oh!" Dobby squeaked, his hands flying to his mouth. "Yes, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby will call Harry Potter Harry Potter now, Harry Potter, sir."

"Good," Harry smiled. "Now second, no punishing yourself. If you think you've done something wrong, just apologize; it'll be fine."

"No punishing Dobby," Dobby said with a nod, as if unsure he'd be able to carry through with that one, something Harry had doubts on himself.

"And third, can you find the Burrow from here?" Harry asked curiously.

"Oh, yes sir," Dobby said. "Dobby can find it if Ma-ister Harry Potter needs him to."

"Good," Harry smiled. "I've got a room there; you should be able to find Hedwig there too. You can use my pillowcase to replace that one if you want, just don't put that one on the pillow. We can burn it together later."

Dobby looked ecstatic.

"I also need you to get a lot of sleep, so you can use my bed until I get back," Harry said firmly.

If Harry had thought Dobby's eyes had gotten big before, this time they grew to the size of dinner plates.

"Mister Harry Potter wants Dobby to sleep in Harry Potter's bed?" Dobby asked, probably never believing in a million years he'd have the opportunity to sleep in a real bed, much less his.

"Harry Potter does want Dobby to sleep in Harry Potter's bed," Harry said with his best Hermione-like stern look on his face. "Can you do that for him?" he asked before deciding that he really needed to stop talking in the third person before he got stuck that way.

"Dobby can do that, sir," Dobby said eagerly. "Does Harry Potter want Dobby to go now?"

"Yes, Dobby, you can go now," he replied.

Practically vibrating with energy, Dobby disappeared with a_ pop!_

"Well there's that issue taken care of," Barchoke said as the others sat in silence and he moved what had to be Dobby's file off to one side.

Harry poked Hermione's knee to get her to look at him again. She still seemed uncertain, but she gave him a grin, so he guessed he was still okay on that front.

"You know," Lichfield said to Barchoke, "this might a good thing to present to the Wizengamot when it comes to pursuing Harry's independence."

"The fact that he has a house–elf to do everything for him?" the Overseer asked.

"The fact that by obtaining a house–elf of his own he's choosing to embrace a traditional side of wizarding life," the old litigator painted the mental picture for Barchoke.

"That plays in well with his decision to put people back on the land instead of selling it," the goblin agreed.

"H–how is this good for Harry?" Hermione asked, as if trying to find some grounds on which to accept all this.

"The Wizengamot has always been a bastion of 'traditional values,'" Lichfield explained. "One of the political wings – the _only_ political wing nowadays, really – is even called the Traditionalists. They don't like to rock the boat unless it's to row us all backwards," he said with a wave.

He went on when he saw Hermione's puzzled look. "They seem to think that the best laws are the oldest laws and the best solutions are the oldest solutions."

"That's great if you happen to be a stodgy old human wizard," Barchoke said with a disgruntled look on his face, "but not so great if you're anything else. That past they glorify wasn't so wonderful for a lot of us."

"It's your bad luck to have been born during two generations of Traditionalist dominance, but before that it wasn't so bad," Lichfield explained. "We had a lot of things roughly level for the most part, provided that you're human," he stipulated. "But we were working on that," he finished with a glance at Barchoke.

_"You_ were on the liberal side?" Hermione questioned.

"What do you mean 'were'?" Lichfield said with a look. "You're talking to probably the only person in the country whose best friend is a goblin."

"I think she only meant that you don't look like a politician," Harry cut in quickly to defend his – er – friend.

The old man didn't say anything to that, though he did look at him with a slight upturn to his lips. Harry knew that Lichfield knew what he was trying to do, but at least the old man wasn't calling Hermione his cuddle-bunny any more, for the moment anyway.

"That was your grandfather's area," Lichfield said with a wave as he sat back in his chair. "I never went for political clout like he did, but even he got this weird strain of Tradationalism that I never quite understood."

"Exactly how Traditionalist?" Harry asked, concerned that growing picture he had of his family was about to be painted over in a Malfoy family portrait.

"There are no magically binding marriage contracts for you if that's what you're worried about," Lichfield said dryly. "They actually would've approved of–" he started, his eyes flickering to Hermione.

Harry shot him a look at said he's been poked quite enough on that already.

"-mug-non-magical people-borns taking over just about everything," Lichfield quickly shifted away as best he could. "No, that phrase doesn't sound right at all," he said critically. "If they're non-magical people, what do we call you?" Lichfield asked Hermione.

"A witch?" Hermione suggested with a deadpan voice that was probably as close as she could get to sarcasm even at the best of times.

"Good point," he said apologetically. "Looks like I'm still clinging to those old terms too. I hope I'm not going Traditionalist," Lichfield said with a look that said he'd rather eat his own sock.

"Are we going to spend another hour down here before you get to the point?" Barchoke asked with a look at his watch.

"It helps Harry," Lichfield said, trying to get back on track, "by giving the Traditionalists something to point to as evidence that he hasn't been 'corrupted' by his non–magical relatives and is fit to run his own life."

"The Dursleys you can call muggles," Harry interjected. "They don't deserve any respect."

The old bailiff nodded to Harry.

"They'd really decide the case against him just because he was raised by muggles?" Hermione asked; her storehouse of ire seemingly endless.

"Some might," Lichfield nodded. "Others would agree to ditch Dumbledore but would want him placed in a 'proper wizarding home' – like the Malfoys – until he fully came of age at seventeen."

"I'd be worse off than I was at the Dursleys," Harry said revolted.

"And you'd probably find your inheritance deposited into their vault to repay their kindness, if you didn't just 'disappear' first," Lichfield said dryly.

Hermione's look to that prospect mirrored his own.

"Showing that he willingly and naturally embraces some aspects of wizarding culture," Lichfield continued, "gives them the ideological wiggle room they need to invalidate Dumbledore's claim of guardianship and maybe even let Harry go off on his own without getting too antsy, since he seems to be doing what they'd want him to do anyway."

"That segues nicely into the issue of inheritance," Barchoke said, pulling forward a bunch of files.

"I'd prefer to stick to damages at the moment," Lichfield said with a look. "There's plenty of time to deal with inheritance after the case is over. I don't want the kid to get a big head in case he's called into court."

"Taking a look at the damages alone will probably be enough to make his head explode," Barchoke said defensively.

"Then perhaps we should address the case itself before we get to damages," Hermione said in a business-like manner. "Damages won't matter much if we lose and there are several areas I have questions about."

Harry smiled as Barchoke's eyes got as big as Dobby's did.

"If it'll keep him from yammering on until midnight, then please, go right ahead," the Overseer said with a glance to Lichfield as if to ask if she was for real.

That look didn't change too much for the next several minutes as his girl – a term that gave him a pleasantly warm feeling – systematically outlined everything she thought concerning what he had told her so far. Harry didn't even know that a 'magical guardian' was even a thing, let alone what kind of power they had in a muggleborn's life, but he could see why she was concerned. By the end of it Barchoke's head was cocked over to one side and he looked in severe danger of getting it stuck that way. It was nice to see the Hermione he knew back in action again.

"Just how old are you?" Lichfield asked with a disbelieving look on his face.

"Thirteen in September," she replied, still in her no-nonsense voice.

"Can I interest you in an exciting career in the Gringotts legal department?" Barchoke asked, his head still cocked over to one side.

"Looking to replace me already?" Lichfield asked his friend, which finally got his head back the way it should be.

"With someone who won't yammer on or make fun of me? Yes, always," the goblin answered.

Hermione did not look enthused about their response to her concerns.

"The magical guardian thing shouldn't be an issue," Lichfield said to Hermione with a placating gesture, probably sensing an outburst in the offing. "Those are only used for-," Lichfield paused for a moment, "'magicals with non-magical parents'? Yeah, that works – It didn't make sense when Dumbledore said that in the memories we have of his visit to the Burrow. Good job on that, by the way," he said to Harry. "You really handed him his hat. I just thought he was trying to confuse the issue, I never thought it'd be his legal strategy."

The old bailiff nodded when he was done, as if agreeing with himself on something.

"I should check it out nonetheless," he continued. "He'll have to convince the Wizengamot that up is sideways and left is blue if he tries to use that in court, but that doesn't mean he won't confuse them enough that they just agree with him because he must know what he's talking about. I've been holding off on interviewing the Dursleys," he said to Hermione, "because the boy doesn't want them involved. Sorry, kid," he turned to Harry, "You just got trumped."

Harry couldn't help but make a face at that. He didn't want the Dursleys anywhere near anything to do with him.

"Don't feel too bad," Lichfield said to him, "I've already interviewed just about everyone you've ever come in contact with, including your Head of House, that horrid old teacher of yours, and that squib you visited in Little Whinging."

Harry could only stare disbelievingly at the old man who so casually wandered through his entire life.

"Professor McGonagall?" Hermione asked, "What does she have to do with this?"

"She was there the night Dumbledore abandoned him," Lichfield said. "Though in her defense, she thought everything was legal, if not ideal."

Harry looked at her a little chagrined; he must've forgotten to tell her that part.

"What's a squib?" Hermione asked.

"A non-magical person of magical parentage," Lichfield said quickly. "I'm getting the hang of this," he smiled.

"I don't understand," Harry said. "The only person the Dursleys even let me be around was Mrs. Figg, and they forced me to go. Wait – Mrs. Figg is a squib?"

"Who's Mrs. Figg?" Hermione asked, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

"She's the crazy old lady that lives on Wisteria Walk," Harry explained.

"That's the one," Lichfield agreed. "Dumbledore put her there to keep an eye on you; even set up an animal breeding business for her using your funds."

"Did she breed cats?" Hermione asked curiously.

"As a matter of fact, she did," Lichfield said with an odd look. "Why do you ask?"

"One of the shopkeepers said the breeder of the cat I liked was arrested for something," she explained.

"She wasn't arrested, but yeah, that was her. Huh," Lichfield grunted, "one of the baby aurors must've talked."

"Aurors?" Harry asked.

"Dark wizard catchers," Barchoke explained.

"A couple of trainees showed up when I paid her a house-call," Lichfield explained. "She didn't want to go and tried to do a runner."

"You kidnapped Mrs. Figg?" Harry cried disbelievingly.

"That's awful!" Hermione cried.

"That's brilliant!" Harry countered. "Sorry, Hermione," he said when she looked at him much like that ginger cat did, "but she really was horrible. Listening to her go on about her cats for hours was torture."

"That might be the case," Lichfield said, "but without her you'd be in much worse shape than you are now."

"What do you mean?" he asked confused.

"She grew concerned after she told Dumbledore how bad things were at the Dursleys and he didn't do anything," the old bailiff explained. "So after that she volunteered to take you whenever they wanted a day without you. She had to make sure you didn't like going there–," he said quickly, "but at least it gave her the chance to slip you health potions disguised as rancid tasting tea."

Suddenly Harry didn't know whether she deserved to be kidnapped anymore.

"So you mean I'm naturally supposed to be this scrawny?" he asked, getting a round of machine gun chuckles from Barchoke.

"When it comes to recouping your losses," the Overseer said when his laughter died down. "We have a couple of options regarding Mrs. Figg."

"What do you mean?"

"Because Dumbledore set it up as a business, with you as the backer," Barchoke explained. "You can exercise your rights and seize the entire operation and then sell off what's there."

"And because she's a cat breeder-," Harry said, taking the logical step.

"That means you'd own a whole bunch of cats," the goblin finished for him.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh; Harry looked at her and couldn't help but grin.

"So how many cats would Mr. 'I don't like pets' have?" she asked with a big grin.

"About a hundred," the goblin replied, causing her to chuckle again.

Harry had to admit, it was rather ridiculous.

"Lester and I would recommend you not take this option," he continued.

"It recognizes the investment as a legitimate one and could be used as an argument to underscore his right to manage your financial affairs," Lichfield explained.

"So what would you suggest?" Harry asked the Overseer.

"That we make some cat food," the goblin said with a grin showing his pointed teeth.

"What?"

"The other option would be to wait until the case is over and have Gringotts do that when they inherit the debt from the phony investment," Lichfield explained.

"So who'd look after the cats?" Hermione asked.

"She would," Lichfield said as if it were obvious. "She's not under arrest. We just detained her until she could be questioned."

"Where do you get the legal authority to detain anyone?" she pressed.

"From him," Lichfield pointed at Harry. "The business was listed under the Potter Estate, and I'm the last recorded bailiff for it. Since it's our assertion that Dumbledore never had right to interfere with it that means they didn't have the right to fire me, which means I'm still on the job. I'm not going to press for back pay though unless you try ordering me around," he said to Harry with a look.

"So where does the cat food come in?" he asked, still puzzled.

"There's a lot of money to be made using the Goblin Regency's Internal Marketplace," Barchoke said.

"There's that much of a desire for pets?" Harry asked.

"Who said anything about pets?" the goblin asked.

Harry was obviously still a step behind but Hermione was a step ahead.

"You eat cats!" she cried horrified.

"What's wrong with eating cats?" the goblin asked. "You know how hard it is to get a decent bit of meat when you live below ground? There's only so many fish to go around, we can only keep so many dragons, and they don't die that often. Plus, dragon meat is really tough to chew through. What did you think we ate, rocks?"

Harry was saved from having to decide where he stood on the great cat food debate when Hermione got help from an unexpected source.

"I think I'll have to agree with her on this one," Lichfield said, making his goblin friend look at him like he'd lost his mind again. "Those cats are bred with kneazles, meaning they're incredibly intelligent," the bailiff explained. "So those cats will know that they're just waiting for you to eat them. If they were normal cats though–"

"They shouldn't eat normal cats either," Hermione pressed.

"The French eat snails," Lichfield said with a look. "Should we go to war with them just to make them stop? It's not like we're talking about eating centaurs and merfolk. You know," Lester said to Barchoke, "a much more reliable source of meat and revenue would come from selling off those as the last chance to get kneazle-cats as pets and then restocking the place with normal cats. Gringotts gets the livestock since it's the owner and gets the money from selling them on the internal market; you could even have old Mrs. Figg run the place since she knows what she's doing."

"A farm for cats too dumb to know they're not pets?" the goblin as rhetorically. "There'd still a lot of legal issues to work through, but we'll take it under advisement," the Overseer said, going back to making notes on his files.

Lichfield gave her a wink that said Barchoke just didn't want to agree yet, which he counted as a win. The fact that the win came at the cost of condemning generations of 'dumb cats' to be goblin food, Harry didn't want to think about.

"Speaking of recouping lost funds," the sullen Overseer said as he pulled a small bag from his pocket and tossing it to Harry. "I suppose I can return this now."

Inside the bag was a single silver sickle.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"It's the sickle our owl took when he delivered my letter last week," Barchoke said as if it was obvious. "Every coin we mint has a memory of every person that handles it from the time it leaves our doors. We used it to verify that you were who you said you were."

"Oh," Harry said, "I thought that was postage."

"You'd pay for postage?" the Overseer asked with a gleam in his eye.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"That's how the non-magical postal system works," Hermione agreed. "People buy stamps to use to send letters and those funds maintain the entire system."

"If we could determine the price point needed to maintain our flock of owls-," the Overseer muttered to himself as he quickly jotted down some numbers.

"Of course you'll have to factor in the cost of royalties of no less than five knuts per Gringotts post just for using the idea-," Lichfield said quickly.

"The idea didn't come from him," Barchoke countered, "it came from the muggle world."

"The idea for Gringotts to do the same was all him though," Lichfield batted back.

"You really think he should be entitled to-," the goblin's eyes darted back and forth and his fingers twitched as he did some furiously quick calculations, "-roughly fifty four galleons and change per month just from hereditary account statements alone?" the Overseer asked.

"Absolutely," Hermione interjected. "The idea alone is probably worth much more than that. In the non-magical world an idea like this could be worth billions."

"When did this become a business negotiation?" the Overseer cried, holding up his hands to stop any conversation of Gringotts having to pay anything. "One more word out of you," Barchoke pointed to Hermione, "and you're going to our legal department, even if I have to knock you out and drag you there myself."

Harry certainly didn't want the goblins to kidnap his – er – female friend – but Lichfield got a laugh out of it.

"Believe it or not," the old litigator said to Hermione with a grin, "that's actually a compliment. It was said to me more than once." To Barchoke he said, "You know that if Gringotts tries to implement that, my divided loyalties will make me take you to court."

"I don't like it when you're on someone else's side," the goblin groused.

"Speaking of business negotiations," Hermione said, corralling the adults to keep things on track. "What about any businesses trying to take advantage of Harry?"

"If you're talking about the shoe shop," Lichfield gestured to Harry, "the kid pretty much gave him permission to do what he wanted, I just made sure that the old pair was displayed for everyone to see. That should start dispelling the myth of your globetrotting childhood," he said to Harry with a look. "You get your next pair for free though."

"It was another myth I actually had in mind. 'The Boy-Who-Lived' book series," Hermione said seriously.

"That was actually one of the issues I was trying to find a way to bring up," Lichfield admitted.

"Oh, that's easy," Barchoke said. "'Hey kid, you know those over-sexualized stories about you set some time in the future? Well I've been reading them!' I'm sure that'd go over great."

Harry's face felt on fire again.

"You haven't been reading that one I sent you, have you?" he asked her somewhat fearfully.

Hermione smiled. "I never got the chance to," she admitted. "I showed my dad and he immediately confiscated it. He came back later and forbid me to read them until ten years after he was dead, so I know they must be really bad."

Harry felt a bit better again.

"I don't think I'm old enough to read them yet," the Overseer told Hermione, making him feel worse again. The old bailiff had an amused look on his face.

They were that bad but Ginny had been reading the last several years? It was a good thing Harry got Mrs. Weasley to keep her away from him then, and glad he missed her birthday yesterday. It was frankly astounding she hadn't attacked him in his sleep already.

"Due to the compartmentalized nature of Gringotts, we've been having trouble tracking down anything related to the publisher, Bumblebee Press," Barchoke informed them. "It looks like the whole operation disappeared a few years ago after the last book came out. Wherever they went a lot of money went with them."

"You were a big hit with Quidditch-loving middle-age witches," Lichfield said dryly.

"Was Dumbledore involved?" Hermione asked seriously, not letting humor get in the way.

"You think we could pry those files out of Corporate Accounts?" the old bailiff asked Barchoke.

"No," the goblin said with a quick shake of his head. "People are starting to talk. They haven't said anything to my face yet, but you can see it when you look at them. I tell them I want something and I can tell they're going to run off to their Overseer as soon as my back is turned. If I can't give them something concrete to show that it's a legitimate suspicion it'll be hard to justify why I want those files. Sooner or later they're going to want to know what's going on. Why do you think Dumbledore's involved?" he asked Hermione curiously.

"In the non-magical world, any story depicting a real person like that would have to have authorization from the person himself," Hermione said. "Or in this case it'd have to come from his guardian, otherwise they'd face legal action against them. That leads me to believe that the writer or publisher must've known Dumbledore personally in order to obtain that permission."

Barchoke looked over to Lichfield; the old bailiff looked thoughtful.

"I've never gotten into the laws around publishing," he said finally. "Don't know anyone who has, actually. We've been keeping our investigation close to our chest," he told Harry, "because we want everything neat and tidy before we go public. I'm actually astounded that I haven't been flooded with owls carrying legal motions. I don't think the old man's taking me seriously, which I'm thankful for - and a little insulted by, actually. You got anything else, Little Miss Litigator?" he asked Hermione.

"The name itself, Bumblebee Press," she said. "Taken by itself it means nothing, but with the author's name, Ida Beeman, you can see a pattern. Someone's being cute and playing with words. If you take the name apart, Ida Beeman becomes 'I the bee man' and Dumbledore is actually an archaic word for a humming insect - a bee. He's the bee man of Bumblebee Press."

Lichfield blinked at her before turning to Barchoke, who had his finger to his lips in thought.

"You think that's enough?" he asked.

"Not unless-" the goblin said before flying through his files.

Harry was flummoxed. "How did you figure all that out?" he asked Hermione.

"I - Well, I actually used to study etymologies for spelling bees," she admitted embarrassed.

"You sure that wasn't entomology?" Harry smiled.

"What's a spelling bee?" Lichfield asked.

As it happened, explaining the difference between entomology and etymology took no time at all, it was why anyone would face off over spelling prowess that proved more difficult to understand. True to form though Lichfield soon found something to joke about.

"A spelling bee nets Dumbledore as Ida Beeman," he said with a grin. "That'll make a great article for the Daily Prophet, and it might help me with something else I wanted to investigate."

"Gah!" Barchoke exploded. "I need more files!"

"What are you going on about?" Lichfield asked.

"It's brilliant," the goblin said with a mad gleam in his eye.

"That's great," Lichfield deadpanned. "Care to share with the whole class?"

"Huh?" the goblin said, looking up as if rediscovering that he wasn't alone. "Oh, those funny muggle investments - the ones that don't exist because we can't make them," he said to Harry to refresh his memory. "What if Gropegold wasn't just using them to make money disappear into his own pockets, what if he was using them to hide funding the entirety of Bumblebee Press?"

"Is that enough to get the files you want?" Harry asked.

"Just try to stop me!" the goblin said with a mad grin.

"So did you catch anything of what we were talking about?" Lichfield asked.

"A bunch of useless twaddle," Barchoke said with a wave. "The suspicion's good enough to let me dig through the corporate files, but I don't think Dumbledore is Ida Beeman."

"Why not?" Harry asked, somewhat amused at the idea of grey-bearded old Dumbledore being a romance novelist.

"Ida Beeman's always been described in blurbs about her as a reclusive old woman, and the books don't read like a man wrote them, even one like Dumbledore," Barchoke said curiously.

"You mean you've actually read them?" Lichfield asked with a grin.

"You said they could hold clues - Oh, you little-," the goblin said shaking a clinched fist at the old human.

"My other suspect would be Bathilda Bagshot," Hermione said, silencing all other discussion.

"Bagshot?" Barchoke asked. "That old history hack? She wouldn't know what real history was if it happened right in front of her."

"She has a much too high opinion of Dumbledore not to be friends with him," Hermione pressed.

"A lot of people have a very high opinion of the man," Lichfield countered. "That's half the problem we're going to have with the case."

"She is a reclusive old woman though," Barchoke pointed out. "And she has experience in both writing and publishing."

"And since all she does is retell the same old myths and Ministry lies and calls them all truth," Lichfield said, now nodding along. "It'd be a small step to take to invent your own story."

Barchoke, though, started shaking his head.

"There's no way I could get my hands on her file though, even if I found female blood or a magical signature that wasn't Dumbledore's in Bumblebee's files. Her account isn't hereditary and I've already invaded enough Personal Accounts to warrant suspicion against me. I'd have to have something with her by name and Dumbledore hasn't been that stupid."

"If it's her," Lichfield said with a smile, "I think I've got a way to get her to admit it herself. We leak that Dumbledore is Beeman to a certain member of the press and watch as the world goes crazy," he said conspiratorially. "Everyone's beloved academic is exposed as a lust-peddler, whose books are then trashed in the press, and if Bagshot is the real Beeman her pride will get her to come forward to claim credit and defend what she wrote - then you'll have all the proof you need to go after her."

"That's deliciously devious," Barchoke said approvingly. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Won't that just increase sales and attract all sorts of unwanted attention to Harry?" Hermione asked concerned.

Harry hadn't even thought of that. Even without Dobby's warning this was already shaping up to be a horrible year at Hogwarts.

"He's going to be getting all kinds of unwanted attention once the case goes public anyway," Lichfield said with an apologetic look. "I'll try to limit it by getting the courtroom sealed, but that won't stop leaks - the Ministry's always leaked like a sieve," he said with a look. "I'll throw a 'cease and desist' at every bookshop we've got though. I should send several more out too," Lichfield said nebulously.

He seemed to disregard it with a wave as a thought for later.

"It'll probably scare them enough not to restock their shelves," he continued. "But if Bumblebee Press is still set up somewhere with an owl order then new copies might still make their way out to the public, and that's discounting all the old copies that are still out there. You might want to buy a beater's bat just to keep the girls away," he said to Harry. Harry didn't know whether he really meant it or not.

"I think that leaves only one other issue to talk about," the grizzled old bailiff said.

"One?" the shocked goblin asked, gesturing to the large stack of files still beside him. "There's Damages, Estate Planning, Inheritance, Investment Opportunities-"

"All of which can wait until the case is over," Lichfield said. "The girl's right. Damages won't matter unless we win, and if Bumblebee Press pans out then the damages will only increase. Besides, we're already pushing our luck with the rental agreement with the Weasleys as it is. You go running off playing Account Manager like you've always wanted to and the Ministry's not going to see him wanting to stand on his own, they're going to see the entire case orchestrated by you, and that's not what we want."

Harry thought Barchoke looked particularly dispirited. The goblin must've really been wanting to follow in his father's footsteps.

"I'd love to hear your advice as soon as we win though," Harry said to him. "I've really come to value what you think."

That put a genuine smile on the goblin's face.

"What were you wanting to talk about?" he asked Lichfield.

The old bailiff looked to Barchoke for support.

"Don't look at me," the goblin said, throwing his hands up in front of him. "I've already stepped in it once on that subject. You do it if you want to."

With his eyes flickering back and forth between him and the goblin, Lichfield seemed to have a change of heart.

"On second thought," Lichfield said, "Now's not the best time. I should investigate things further before I bother you with it."

Harry looked at him oddly. With everything he's been sharing about the investigation, Lichfield's been strangely tight-lipped about some things. Still, Harry reckoned, he always did tell him much more about what he didn't tell him before a lot quicker than Dumbledore ever did. Even facing Voldemort a second time wasn't enough to get the old headmaster to tell him why the dark wizard was after him in the first place. Lichfield would've told him that, at least.

"So, I think that's us done," Lichfield said cheerfully.

"That didn't take so long after all," Barchoke said standing, before looking at his watch and making a disgusted face. It must've taken a lot longer than he had thought.

"I'll see you at the Hopefuls thing tomorrow, won't I?" Harry asked Lichfield as he and Hermione got to their feet as well.

"McGonagall promised a meal," the bailiff said as if that had decided the issue.

"You're meeting the Hopefuls?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah," Harry said embarrassed. "McGonagall thinks I deserve the credit for the program more than Dumbledore does, and I must admit, it feels good to take something from him for a change."

"Pity this is only a day-trip for me," she said with a smile as they headed for the door. "I'd love to be there for you when something good happens. It'd make a nice change."

As they made their way back towards the wandering way Lichfield spoke again. "So I take it you'll be asking Dobby about this warning of his once he gets some sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I didn't want to keep him up longer than I had to."

"I don't see how things could possibly be any more dangerous than they were last year though," Hermione said judiciously.

"What happened last year?" Barchoke asked behind them.

"Nothing much-," Harry said, looking to Hermione with a grin.

"-Just You-Know-Who possessing our Defense professor and trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone from Hogwarts," Hermione finished for him.

"The _what_ stone?" Barchoke cried, causing them to look back at the Overseer.

"Possessed by You-Know-Who?" Lichfield asked.

"Quiet!" the Overseer commanded before pointing to them with a fierce look in his eye. "The what stone?"

"The S-sorcerer's Stone," Hermione said uncertainly. "The one made by Nicholas Flamel."

Barchoke took off toward the door as fast as his legs could carry him.

"What's going on?" Harry asked. "Doesn't everyone know about this? Dumbledore said that it was all over the school."

"I think I should visit you from now on," Lichfield said to Harry. "Every time you're here you end up wrecking the place."

"BREACH!" Overseer Barchoke's shout drifted back to them from the wandering hallway they had been about to enter. "BREACH!"

"Hands up," Lichfield said stoically as he raised his towards the ceiling.

Faster than Harry thought possible a flood of goblins carrying weapons filled the hallway as Harry and Hermione's hands quickly sprang up to join Lichfield's.

"Now, Hermione," Harry said, starting to panic a little. "I think you need a lawyer."

.o0O0o.

**AN**: I'm horrible as always, I know, but I love doing that and cliffhangers were a staple of Rowling's work, so you have no one to blame but her.

Probably the hardest thing in writing this so far has been getting big, important chapters down in a timely manner. It seems as though the more important the chapter is the longer it takes and there was some pretty heavy topics in this one.

Anyway, as always, thanks for reading.


	16. Spattergroit

**AN:** There are calls in reviews from people saying that I should plot everything out in outline form as if I were in grade school so I could run through the chapter in a predictable and linear way. The kind of writing I'm doing, the kind that most clearly reflects real life, is impossible to segment in that way. Chapters here are more for convenience than structure. The closest thing I have to compare this to is The Song of Ice and Fire series (Game of Thrones, which I've been reading) by George R.R. Martin, though I make no claims as to the comparative quality of my work in relation to his.

Nevertheless, it's a story with a thousand moving parts, multiple story lines, each moving in their own way and in their own time. You can't plot something like that out in the manner people want; it simply has to develop on its own and in its own way. So if you think this is disorganized and jumbled, it both is and it isn't. I know exactly what's going on; you just have to hold on for the ride and try to figure it out, because I'm not going to tell you – that's boring.

.o0O0o.

There was a ripple of movement on the far side of the lobby behind the tellers, but he couldn't tell what it was. Moments before it had sounded like someone had shouted, but from his seat in the unwelcome visitor's section he couldn't understand what it said, or even what door it'd come from.

The frizzy–haired dentist stood and tried to peer over to see what the disturbance was. There was nothing to occupy himself with in the small clutch of chairs, not even a single magazine, old newspaper, or tabloid so goblin–watching was the best he had.

His two goblin buddies – which made them seem so much more cheerful than saying 'those two goblins who'd like nothing better than to kick me out' – looked at him quickly in case he decided to move towards a door. While he carefully didn't take a step in any direction, he did rock back and forth heel–to–toe as if to loudly proclaim his right to stand… before quickly resuming his seat, crossing his legs, and putting on his most innocent expression.

Maybe he could read one of those books he just bought. There's no way whatever was going on could have anything to do with his Hermione. He drummed his fingers on the back of the chair next to him and looked around. He doubted they had tea, but maybe there was a coffee machine somewhere he could get to. Just as he was debating whether to ask one of his goblin buddies if they knew what cappuccino was there was another ripple of movement and a goblin buddy boy band tramped straight out of the bank and into the street beyond. They'd certainly be new kids on that block.

Looking back to the lobby at large he noticed something odd. All the tellers were gone, though the people waiting in line were still standing there. One–by–one the goblins popped back up again a few moments later, slammed the large book they used shut before shouting "Teller closed!" causing the book itself to disappear in a puff of smoke.

There was definitely something strange going on, but even the robed lollygaggers didn't seem to know what it was. The lobby started buzzing as talk increased each time a here again, gone again teller closed shop. His stomach then dropped several inches as he saw who walked in surrounded by those not–so–friendly goblin guards and hustled through to the far side of the lobby. Numbly he stood to see another ripple of movement across the way become a scarlet and gold line of goblins moving through and politely telling everyone to leave before hustling them towards the door. Well, as politely as goblin guards did things that is.

The only one who seemed to get special treatment was him. One of the new goblins separated from the line and made their way over as the triple set of double doors were closed and locked. He dropped back into his chair. This was it; the sinking feeling told him so. They were going to tell him that something horrible had happened. He never should've let her come here. Now he was going to be condemned to be the only Granger left, again.

"Wendell Granger?" the new goblin asked and the man looked blearily up at him.

"Dan," he said automatically. "Everyone calls me Dan. Where's Hermione?"

The goblin glanced down to his slip of paper before wadding it up and putting it in his pocket. "Your daughter's a witness being held for questioning involving a breach of international wizarding law, and treaty with the Goblin Nation."

Relief like he had never known washed through him and all he could do was laugh. If he hadn't been sitting down he wouldn't have been able to stand and he didn't know if the tears in his eyes were from the relief or the humor of the situation. His Little Puckle was a Granger after all, and was at least knee deep in shit. Well, if she got herself into it then she could get herself out. Grangers always did. After all, they didn't call you a witness this early on if you had done something wrong.

When the giggles subsided he looked back up at the goblin in front of him. "So," he asked, kicking his feet up to rest on the chair opposite him. "Do you guys have a cappuccino machine?"

.o0O0o.

"Just relax and everything will be fine," Lester said gruffly as he tried to calm the kids down.

It didn't work any better this time than it had before. The boy was still pacing back and forth like some kind of caged animal and worrying about everyone but himself while the girl was staring off into space with her eyes bugged out like she had just killed her own parents. It might've been a mistake to tell her what could've happened to her father earlier, but at least she was sitting down.

While he had to take responsibility for the girl's quiet state of shock, not that he knew how, he blamed Barchoke for the boy. Goblins had no patience, so while prompting them to tell what they knew and then repeating "Faster!" at them seemed the most orderly thing for him to do, it only made the tale disjointed and the kids worse before they got stuffed in here.

It was a wonder the boy hadn't snapped at him. Then again, it could've been Barchoke running off as soon as he had the boy describe the Stone itself that saved them from that. He understood the goblin's rush but there were better ways to do things.

The metal door squealed as it opened and a third kid was shoved inside in a ginger blur.

"That's my son!" an angry Arthur said from the hallway.

"Then get inside," the goblin guard said. There were too many of them to know any by name unless they shaved their head and swore vengeance upon you, but then you probably didn't have long enough to learn it.

"Ron!" Harry cried as he stopped his pacing to help the boy off the floor.

"Is this the one you want?" the guard asked as Arthur Weasley came sheepishly into the room, probably wondering if he'd ever leave it again.

"Yeah, that's the one," was all that Lester had time to say before the door was slammed shut again and bolted from the other side. He had never been on this side of the questioning process before; he didn't like it.

"What's going on here?" Arthur asked him as the boy seemed to come to his senses.

"Bloody hell!" the ginger boy exclaimed. "That bleedin' goblin almost tore my arm off."

"Watch yourself, boy," Lichfield said. "There are no runes in this room."

"Wha?"

Lester left the other kids to fill the new one in as he turned to the parent. "Does your family have a litigator?"

"No," Arthur answered, "We've never needed one. What's going on?"

"These kids stepped in something big, up to their necks by the look of it," he said by way of explanation. "I can't give you specifics right now–"

"The Socer–!" the ginger kid cried before Harry could stop him with a hand over his mouth. At least one of them was taking _'Don't say a word about that thing'_ seriously without going catatonic.

"They're here as witnesses, not as criminals," Lichfield clarified. "Otherwise those guards never would've had leave to go into Diagon Alley to get you. I would've come myself but had these to look after," he nodded to where the kids were.

"Yes, well, they certainly caused a stir up there," the balding Arthur agreed. "If it weren't for seeing Ginny and the boys home safely Molly would be here too. I expect she'll make her way back here shortly."

"There'll be no way in or out of this building by now," Lester said, trying to keep the ominous implications out of his tone. "It'd take a rampaging dragon to get through those doors."

"Have you seen Molly when she's angry?" Arthur asked.

"Come on," Lichfield said with a grin. "I've got papers for you to sign." It was a stroke of luck that the girl was a witch of non–magical heritage and without a magical guardian so she could sign them herself, once the boys brought her around again that is.

.o0O0o.

"They're not gonna kill you," his secretary said as Barchoke rummaged through the cabinets in his office for a suitable tie. He couldn't go in there looking like he had any sort of blood running down his shirt – be it red or green. "Overseer Gutripper might, but he's never liked you; the others won't, at least not right away," she clarified.

From the depths of the cabinet Barchoke withdrew a rumpled black tie that would do fine. It would only look like he spilled ink on himself, though he supposed they could strangle him with it. If that happened the most he could hope for would be a young goblin to be named Tiechoke one day so he wouldn't be completely lost to history. Though if Gutripper was the one to do it the kid would probably be named Stabbed–in–the–Eye–and–Skullf–

"They'll be way too pissed off that you called an emergency meeting in the first place," Secretary Trixie's voice cracked as she said the obvious. "So they're more likely to rip you apart verbally before they do it literally."

Besides the alluring voice that drove goblins wild, she had started telling him what was going on in the bank behind the scenes. If she hadn't he would've blundered his way into an Overseer's Inquisition already by treading on too many toes since he had gotten that boy's owl. As it is he's not far from it even now. He should really think of some way to get things started with her; so far this was their most personal conversation they've ever had and it was completely one–sided.

"Just remember that you've got a very good reason for calling them in the first place," she advised as he took the tie by the wide end and flicked it at the desk, making it crack like a whip and come back completely rumple–free.

"You do have a good reason right?" she asked, her eyes alight with undisguised interest. "No one wants a dead goblin's secretary. If you die I'll be back to polishing knuts for a living."

"Well I certainly don't want you polishing anyone else's knuts," Barchoke said before he could stop himself. His eyes bulged as he realized what he'd just said and struggled to get them back in his skull. He'd been spending way too much time with Lester he decided as he hurriedly struggled to get his tie around his neck.

In a flash Secretary Trixie's hand clutched the ones doing battle with his tie and his eyes flickered up to hers. This was it, he decided. She was going to stab him for what he said; secretaries were notorious for stabbing perpetrators of unwanted advances. He was going to die before he ever reached the other Overseers.

After a moment she swatted his hands away and started doing up his tie by herself, still with a peculiar look on her face. Did other secretaries do this or was she thinking that if she was the one to kill him that she might become secretary to the one who took his place? If he was going to die, he'd prefer it be for something more heroic than a secretary saving her job.

As she tightened the tie against his throat Trixie asked him the most personal question he had ever heard from another goblin. "Are you interested in mergers and acquisitions?" she asked with an appraising look in her eye.

He tried to keep his blush from showing as he straightened his collar. "Who isn't?" he replied, examining himself in the mirror on the inside of the cabinet door, studiously not looking at his secretary.

"Huh," she said thoughtfully as she quickly looked him up and down again. "Interesting. Guess you shouldn't die then," she said with a shrug as if to say it didn't matter to her before sauntering her way over to open the door for him, as sleek as any cat he'd ever eaten.

Gotts knew he wasn't going to die today, he decided as he put his suit jacket on and buttoned it up smartly as if it were armor. He had a merger he desperately wanted to make.

He paused for a moment before going to his desk and taking out the vicious–looking dagger that had been presented to him on the day he'd been appointed Overseer. He had never used it before, never taken it with him before now.

Barchoke placed it in his inside suit pocket and glanced up at Trixie to see her look at him like she'd never seen a male before. He smirked. As he strode purposely out of his office he knew that this was the day that life truly began for Overseer Barchoke.

All his confidence was lost between fourth and fifth floors as he was flipped, spun, and corkscrewed into place. The fliplift might be the quickest way to get from floor to floor but it certainly wasn't something you wanted to take when your mind was on something else. Overseer Fillast, commonly known as 'the Director' since he oversaw the day–to–day operations of the building itself, may claim that everything was working as intended but Barchoke would never see why they couldn't just make the damn thing go straight up and down without all this flipping about.

Just once he wished that the humans Overseer Bankor kept bringing over from the Ministry to discuss monetary policy would complain about the thing so they could both throw their support behind getting something to replace that repurposed closet–thing. He suspected it was some sort of human pride that kept them from it. Then again, Bankor wasn't known as 'the Little Minister' just for his work liaising with the Goblin Liaison Office; he was far too diplomatic to step on anyone's toes, which made him perfect for dealing with the Ministry but lousy for everything else. Odds are he had them take the stairs just to avoid the issue.

He was dawdling, he knew, but resting his head against the pale green of the tiny room was better than what waited for him. It wasn't 'Director' Fillast or 'Minister' Bankor that he dreaded to see, it was 'the Enforcer,' Overseer Gutripper, the head of Security. Suddenly Barchoke wished that he had brought his files with him, they always made him feel safe. It was too easy to get lost in files though, and digging for figures to cover an uncomfortable moment always made you look weak. He had everything he needed in his head, so as long as he kept his head attached he'd be fine.

Barchoke took a breath and felt the blade in his pocket; it was oddly reassuring to have, even if he didn't know how to use it. It was exceedingly rare for anyone above the rank of cart operator to die by dueling or acts of vengeance – unless you were a guard or Overseer Gutripper was involved – so learning to defend yourself once your family moved Up was unnecessary, not like those who lived Below.

Those at his level had something different to fear – death by mismanagement. While those below him might be demoted, transferred, or outright fired, termination of management, when called for, tended to be swift and brutal, and he didn't think there'd be the same indecision around replacing him as there was about Grand Overseer Largrot, who only kept his position at the top due to the Overseers being unable to agree on who should succeed him. No one had yet distinguished themselves or had something working against them.

Pushing open the fliplift's door, Barchoke tried to regain that flash of confidence that he had in his office as he strode out into the hall. While where he worked on level four had been designed to illustrate the wealth that's been gained in their post–Halfwit "recovery" and how far they still have to go, level five, where the Grand Overseer ostensibly held court at their monthly meetings, was designed to impress upon management precisely what had been lost.

Torches flickered in iron sconces jutting from the drab and unfinished heavy stone bricks that formed the entire level. The ceiling was lost to shadow, an illusion, of course, used to give the feeling that those who entered had somehow found their way into a muggle cathedral or ancient castle. Even the temperature and humidity were different, giving the feeling of a wintry storm in the offing.

Some enchantment on the entirety, combined with the sight of the large double doors to the Grand Overseer's Chamber, evoked this profound sense of longing, of grief too long denied, of exclusion, that it almost made you weep at the magnitude of it; and that was before even learning the truth behind that feeling. It had done precisely that the first time he'd been here on the day his father was promoted from teller to account manager and he had embarrassed himself in front of the Grand Overseer at the time when he was still a child, though the great goblin had smiled at him knowingly then.

All promotions were done here, it was a naturally humbling place, making you feel connected to the Grief of the People and know your place in alleviating that grief was minuscule, no matter what you did. There was no place for humility or grief today though; Barchoke tried to steel himself as he walked forward, his steps ringing on the cold stone floor. Humility would get him killed if he didn't stand his ground and grief would be compounded as Secretary Trixie would be left destitute and Hammerhand stripped of his compensation and thrown Below to be harried and abused before "wandering" into the dragon pits at feeding time.

He wasn't a child anymore, he reminded himself; he was Overseer Barchoke of Gringotts Bank!

The great wooden doors opened easily with a push, the sound of their movement cutting off conversation in the great chamber within. The great stone meeting hall was uncommonly dark, its windows drawn; an unexpected change to offset the Ministry onlookers that were sure to be attempting to discover why the bank had been closed in the middle of the business day. It made the polished black table that dominated the center of the room gleam ever more brightly in the flickering firelight.

Barchoke glanced around and saw immediately that everyone was in attendance. 'Director' Fillast was to one side, communicating in whispers to his ever silent brother Braglast, the Dodgy Deals "supervisor" unbound by the same illegality reporting stricture as everyone else, and with Overseer Lognot who was in charge of Confidential. 'The Little Minister,' Overseer Bankor, was on the other side of the room speaking to 'The Human,' Overseer Barnabas Marsh, the puffed up pureblood in charge of the Hogwarts Accounting Department. Pudgy Overseer Slaggran of Personal Accounts and Overseer Alkrat of Corporate Accounts had been standing by the door, though they cut off their conversation and moved to their seats as soon as he entered.

Only Overseer Gutripper and Grand Overseer Largrot were already seated; Gutripper as if poised to strike while the not–so–Grand–as–he–is–rotund Largrot had already fallen asleep in his chair. The scarlet and gold draped guards positioned on both sides of the doorway saluted the slumbering Grand Overseer and departed, closing the doors behind them. The double doors were barely closed, and scarcely half their number seated before it began.

Gutripper's dagger flashed and embedded a third of the way to its hilt into the polished stone table, causing the obese Grand Overseer to snort himself awake as the irate security goblin stared daggers at Barchoke. It was commonly known that goblin steel took in that which made it stronger – at least the elder blades did somehow – but less well known was how the blades they forged even today gouged through solid stone. The Overseer for Hereditary Accounts violently pushed aside the childish wish to have been one of the lucky few already seated as the first accusation flew.

"What gives you the right to order my Enforcers about?" the lean stern–faced goblin demanded.

Barchoke forced himself to stare directly into the Security Overseer's mismatched eyes. While his left was a foggy–white orb with a pink blob in the center – no doubt blinded in one of the many matters of vengeance that kept him occupied Below if the vicious scar that crossed it was anything to go by – the other blazed red with barely constrained hate. Barchoke found that he liked the odd red coloration much better in the goblin's rumored and estranged son, Auditor Axegrind, though it could be the fact that he outranked the auditor that helped with that.

"Your Enforcers?" Barchoke asked as he made his way to his chair, directly opposite Gutripper at the end of the table closest the doors. Custom might dictate that the topic at hand must be dealt with once the table had been gouged, but that didn't mean he couldn't get further from the overly aggressive goblin than he was now and thankfully the table was rather wide at their end. There were more gouge marks around Gutripper than all the other overseers combined.

"Was the entire bank relocated to Down Below without my knowledge?" Barchoke asked with a confidence he didn't feel. "And here I thought Up Above they were called _Guards_." A few of his companions taking their seats chuckled, giving him strength to continue. "I needn't have to remind you that just because you train them in the old ways doesn't mean they're your own personal army. Anyone from a cart operator up can call upon a guard at need, and that's precisely what I've done."

Barchoke chose to address the other Overseers as he concluded on this topic. "Provided that this council has not secretly voted to strip itself of that power in the last week and a half, I fail to see that I've done anything wrong in this regard."

The overly–large Largrot gave an indeterminate grunt and an underhanded wave, spelling the end of the issue, so unless Gutripper had a plan where murdering them all, declaring himself King, and going on a murderous rampage that didn't end with the Ministry counter–attacking and devastating the entire People he had no choice but to withdraw his dagger and his complaint.

While the half–blind Overseer did withdraw the dagger he still kept it ready to gouge again, though that was common with him, as was the stare he gave the one who defied him. Barchoke wished it hadn't been directed at him though, it was rather unnerving.

"You took one of my delivery boys – I mean curse breakers – and have him play delivery boy," Overseer Alkrat quickly stammered; his darker skin, odd manner of speech, and funny little mustache marking him out as the strangest amongst them, human included.

"Why–why–why you do this?" The only foreign goblin ever to make it so high in management, he seemed to take it in stride that he'd never be Grand Overseer, even if he had somehow managed to boost the efficiency of Overseas Exploitation by three hundred percent.

"Curse Breaker Weasley was not recalled, reassigned, or commandeered," Barchoke said patiently, glad to have the distraction for once since it allowed him time to get his thoughts in order. "He was merely on–hand and asked to facilitate a remote deposit and withdrawal delivery that involved his childhood home. Who better to do that than a person who once lived there?"

"I did not say it is wrong," Alkrat held his hands up in front of him as he shied away from his previous question. "I just say it is odd. Do you not think it is odd?" he asked no one in particular, "I think it is odd," he answered himself quickly and tried to pretend he had never spoken at all in his life.

"Why are we here?" the human asked with an air of boredom, as if he too might fall asleep the next time Largrot nodded off if they didn't get to the point of the meeting soon.

"Yes, why–why–why am I here? It is the daytime," Alkrat asked, happy to join in on someone else's question. "Why am I not in Cairo?"

"And why is the building closed?" Overseer Slaggran asked, waving his pudgy fingers at him. Once known as 'the stellar teller,' the now–unremarkable Slaggran was well on his way to becoming another Largrot, though not by becoming Grand Overseer; they already had one fat incompetent leader, they weren't going to replace him with another. "We don't make money with a closed building," he wheezed.

"Gringotts bylaws clearly dictate," Barchoke firmly stated, "that Overseers may only meet in council once the bank has been closed and that all Overseers must be recalled when a Breach is discovered that rises to the level of an Existential Threat."

Reactions to this bombshell were about what Barchoke predicted: the proper Overseers were shocked, the human and foreigner confused, Gutripper had a rictus snarl, and Largrot had fallen asleep again. Only Supervisor Braglast showed no reaction, but he never did. Barchoke wondered if torturing the tiny goblin would even get a word out of him.

Gutripper's dagger flashed, embedding into the table again as Barchoke willed himself not to jump. Immediately he tried to calm himself by calculating just how many more table gouges the overzealous Enforcer had left to make before the table around him crumbled completely.

"Existential Threats are tantamount to a declaration of war," the vicious goblin declared. "No Breach has ever risen to that level and I resent the implication that my _guards_," Gutripper sneered, "are negligent in their duties, ill–equipped, or unable to counter any such threat they may encounter!"

Barchoke's insides churned, he felt like he was going to puke – or die – _'No! Not today._'

"I have no doubts about the competency or capabilities of _your_ guards, Overseer Gutripper," Barchoke said with a smile just on the formal side of panic. "They have always performed admirably and bring honor to Gringotts and are a credit the People and your training."

The compliment seemed to throw the unruly goblin.

"I–," Little Minister Bankor started to say before halting, with a gesture to Gutripper's dagger still in the table. Clearly he was loathe to tread on toes or formality while there was still a hint of an unfinished question. And while the issue was still unresolved, Barchoke had done that by design; he only wondered if Gutripper would allow him his dramatic effect.

Overseer Gutripper glanced to the Little Minister, then back to him. The eternally perturbed Enforcer might not know how he was being played, but he knew that he was. For a second time his dagger was removed from the hard stone table and Barchoke had no doubt that it would be in his skull next if he didn't handle this correctly.

Bankor cleared his throat before speaking.

"As you know," he said in a placating tone, "through my contacts with the Ministry I am kept well informed about the issues–of–the–day here at home as well as events throughout the wider wizarding world." The soporific effect of the milquetoast Minister's voice drew a rasping snore from their obese boss as he continued.

"I can assure you, the Ministry is considering no new restrictions, strictures, or curtailments at this present time, nor are they likely to attack us," he said with a smile. "And I would know if any of the Ministry money has gone missing – though I cannot say the same for their Personal Accounts," Overseer Bankor was quick to add.

"That's good to know," Barchoke acknowledged, "I have no doubts as to the thoroughness of your servicing of the Minister of Magic." The human seemed to be the only one to pick up on what he meant by that. "But it wasn't your department that we are here to discuss. The Ministry at large may be unaware of this Breach," Barchoke let the suspense build for a moment. "But the issue is well known within the halls of Hogwarts–"

Almost as one the Overseers' eyes converged on the human amongst them as Barnabas Marsh's brow became… marshy as the formerly pompous pureblood suddenly wasn't so confident.

"–And it deals with Confidential Affairs," Barchoke cried, pointing at Overseer Lognot, seated beside the now emotionally–drained Marsh.

Lognot's eyes bulged and he became as white as parchment. Gutripper turned to leer at the goblin in question. Lognot having full–time control of a dedicated contingent of guards had always been a point of contention between Security and Confidential Affairs, and he was a much closer target – one that his dagger could actually reach. Grand Overseer Largrot woke again with a snort.

.o0O0o.

It was a quiet and nervous group surrounded by Gringotts Guards that followed Lichfield down the same rough-hewn hallway back to the same small room as before. The girl had gone from petrified to jittery. He nodded courteously to the bald goblin that held the door for them.

"Thank you for your service and swift death to your enemies," he said as he handed their wands over and the metal door closed. Lichfield didn't know who the guard had declared vengeance upon but as long as it wasn't him he didn't care.

After glancing up at the runes near the ceiling he turned to Arthur. "I'm sorry your kid got dragged into this, but I think it's better if I take it from here."

"I can't leave Ron alone," Arthur replied; the kid didn't seem to enjoy the prospect either.

"I know you want to protect your kid," Lichfield gruffed when it looked like the other kids were going to join in the argument. "But you wouldn't tend to him yourself if he got a bad case of spattergroit, would you?"

"O–of course not," Arthur said, obviously wondering what that had to do with anything.

"Well, that's what we got here," Lichfield said. "They're infected, I'm the healer, and you're the concerned parent. The only way I can do my job is to get you out of the way before – no, that won't work," he said, thinking of the Overseers somewhere above them. "They won't like being compared to a bizarre fungal infection if they overhear that bit."

"I thought you said this room was protected," Harry interjected.

Lichfield quieted him with a finger to the lips and a look.

"Why can't I stay?" Arthur asked, clearly confused.

"What we're dealing with here isn't Ministry justice," Lichfield tried to explain. "It's Goblin justice, Gringotts rules, and cut–throat office politics."

"Do they actually cut throats?" the girl asked, still a little wide–eyed.

"They have," he replied, "but only Barchoke will have to worry about that if you're wrong. He's putting a lot of faith in you," Lichfield said to Harry with a look that said they'd better be right. "Even being recognized as their litigator," he said to Arthur, "it'll be a stretch for me to be able to go in there with them since goblin justice doesn't use them. They won't care that you're this one's father or not–"

"–I have a name, you know," the ginger kid interrupted.

"–And I'm sure it's pretty," Lichfield shot back, "but they won't care who you are either, only what you know. But again," he pressed Arthur, "you won't be allowed in at all, and you being there will make it tougher for me to get in. The only chance we have to get an outsider in that room with them is for me to go alone."

Arthur looked at the kids, the concerned and uncertain parent look written all over his face. The image of a dark haired, dark eyed girl he had never gotten the chance to meet swam in front of him for a moment. She would have been about the same age Harry's parents. Mentally he shook himself. _'Work now, grieve later,_' Lichfield told himself. It gave him an idea though.

"Arthur," he said, drawing the other man's eyes to him. "Has the family ever steered you wrong?"

The man blinked at him for a moment and then smiled. "Under your protection?" he asked.

"Someone's got to act like the guardian the kid's never had," he said with a shrug as Harry gave him a curious look.

"You protect Ron from them and me from Molly and I'm willing to go with you on this," Arthur said. "But what am I supposed to do in the meantime if I can't leave the building?"

The girl's brain finally seemed to snap.

"Dad," she said, turning to Arthur Weasley. Maybe a trip to Saint Mungo's for mental healing was going to be the next order of business once the building reopened.

"Could you find out what happened to my dad and make sure he doesn't get into any more trouble?" the girl asked, quieting his concerns for her sanity. Barchoke already had one mad litigator working for him, Lichfield didn't need the competition.

"Having him not speak at all would be ideal," he told Arthur with a look, earning a nod from the girl.

"I'll do what I can," Arthur said. "You really think they'll let me walk out there?"

"Only one way to find out," Lichfield replied as he jiggled the door handle and stepped back.

The iron door opened a few inches.

"What?" a goblin from the hallway demanded.

"Mr. Weasley appears to have no knowledge that the Overseers would be interested in," Lichfield said to the cracked door. "Please have someone escort him to the lobby's waiting area until his son is ready to leave. I will be staying to represent the others."

There was a moment's pause. No doubt the guards were fairly uncertain about what exactly was going on and what precisely was expected of them. Detaining witnesses was one thing but a witness's parent? He was hoping that his role in prior Ministry–based investigations would convey that he knew what he was talking about, or at least that he'd be the one to blame if his request ran contrary to Overseer wishes. After all, if they did, the lobby wasn't that far away and the man could be dragged back in here easily enough.

The door opened the rest of the way in one smooth motion and the goblins peered cautiously inside. Just because they appeared to be wandless and held captive in a warded room a level below the bank while the entire building was shut down was no reason for them to be lax.

As Arthur disappeared with a metallic _bang_ the boy finally turned on him.

"What's going to happen to–," Harry asked before he silenced him with another finger across the lips.

When he had the kids' attention he put his hands over his eyes for a moment before removing them. He gestured that they should to the same, and then again when they stared at him stupidly. The kids momentarily blindfolded, Lester withdrew his emergency wand from behind his ear, and with a flick it became visible.

Extending his wand to the runes around the ceiling, he silently cast the charm he'd learned in school. The line of runes faintly glowed before settling again. With a flick he made his emergency wand invisible again and stashed it somewhere the kids would never look for it.

"Well, they're charged," he said as the kids uncovered their eyes again. "So whatever the wards do they're working. We'll just have to take Barchoke at his word that we won't be overheard. If that door opens, your mouths shut – got it?"

"What's going to happen to Hagrid?" Harry asked in lieu of agreement, though truth be told Lichfield was more worried about the ginger kid's mouth getting that kid into trouble.

"I don't know," Lichfield said truthfully. "That depends how much he knew about the breach and what his role was. What did he do?"

The same looks past between the kids that he remembered giving Charlus when they were that age and didn't want to tattle on a friend.

"The last thing I want to do is cause that gentle giant any more grief," Lester said. "He's had enough of that as it is."

Harry looked over to the girl again. What was the name of his cuddle–bunny? Something strange. Hermany? Hermanonie? Hermeneutics? He really should learn it now that the girl was his client, even if he wasn't being paid. He pulled out the retainer agreements and looked through them. Ah! Hermione; he'd been close.

"You might as well come right out and say it," he pressed. "Because if everything goes right I'll be seeing it shortly enough, and for once I'd like to get through this before we get interrupted."

"Hagrid was the one who took the Sorcerer's Stone from vault 713 last year," Harry admitted. "But it's not his fault," the kid said. "He did it for Dumbledore."

"He'd do anything for Professor Dumbledore," Hermione agreed. "He wouldn't even ask _why_–"

"Exactly," the boy cut in again. "He'd never think he'd be asked to do anything illegal. He trusts him."

"And Professor McGonagall, Flitwick, and the others," the girl said panicking for her favorite teachers. "There's no way they'd do something like this knowingly."

"Then we have to hope they were being duped," Lichfield said. "This deals with political issues _way_ over my pay grade, so there's really nothing I can do if they weren't."

"What's illegal about that old stone anyway?" the Weasley kid asked. "Wish I'd gotten my hands on it."

"Ron," the girl chided. "The Stone is highly dangerous and only let out of Gringotts for very specific reasons," the girl said, surprising the hell out of Lester. "I thought they were doing research."

"Just how much do you know about the damn thing?" he asked the frizzy–haired girl.

"I read the entire Flamel Agreement last year at school," she said.

Barchoke was right; she should be chained to a desk somewhere in Legal.

"How can the Stone be dangerous?" the ginger asked. "Who wouldn't want unlimited gold and to live forever?"

"That's how it's dangerous," the girl explained.

Lester pulled out a gold coin from his pocket and held it up.

"How much is this worth?" he asked the Weasley.

"Er – a galleon," the kid replied. "Seventeen sickles?" he asked uncertainly.

"With that stone out there you wouldn't be able to buy a knut for a thousand galleons."

"But it's gold!" the kid cried.

"And gold only has value if it's rare," that girl Hermione explained. "If anyone could make as much as they wanted then gold would be worthless. But wait!" she cried. "Why would he be stealing from Harry if he could get the Stone?"

"Good question," Lichfield said. "Only the old man will be able to tell us. Maybe he couldn't get the Stone right away, or it was his way to put all the money back before Harry caught on to what he did, or maybe he just wanted a more ready supply once he drained the kid dry. And that's discounting the possibility of wanting to live forever."

Suddenly the boy looked very angry. "I should've known he never would have destroyed the Stone," Harry said. "With Voldemort after it," the Weasley kid cringed at the name, "I never thought he'd lie about it."

"Setting aside You–Know–Who–," an astonished Lichfield couldn't believe he just said that.

"Isn't You–Know–Who rather important?" the girl asked.

"I'm trying to keep myself to one panic–inducing emergency at a time," he replied, suddenly feeling the need to sit down. Why did it feel like he was juggling boulders when it came to this kid? Charlus would be laughing his ass off in whatever afterlife there might be with how much grief Harry was giving him. He supposed it was payback for being such an annoying little shit when he was younger.

Lester settled into one of the chairs with a grateful sigh. He felt like he had aged another fifty years. Just an hour ago he was happily pursuing a case of abandonment against one of the most powerful and well respected people in the country and now he was in the middle of an international incident of catastrophic proportions – two of them actually, though he hoped one of them could wait.

"The old man destroying the Stone is probably the best and worst thing he could do," he said as the others took seats. "If he did that means he could make only a limited supply of gold, but we may never be sure if it was actually destroyed. If he hadn't, then it'd be left out there somewhere for us to find and destroy ourselves so we could be sure that it's gone."

"He had it so that the only way to find the Stone was to not want to use it," Harry said. "What are the chances that he didn't make any gold at all?"

"Then what was the point of stealing the Stone in the first place?" he asked. "Look, we're not going to find out the truth here, that's for the I.C.W. and Gringotts to do. I'm supposed to be telling you three what to expect the next time that door opens."

The lumps and bumps of the conversation behind them, Lester outlined what would hopefully be happening next and what was going to be expected of them.

"Memories?" Hermione asked. "You mentioned them before, but how do you look into someone's memories?"

"With a penseeve," the ginger kid said.

"It's pronounced 'siv,'" Lester corrected.

"I always heard 'seeve,'" he said.

"It's 'siv;' it's a pun for someone with a lot on their mind – forget it, goblins won't use them for something like this."

"Why not?" Ginger asked. "I think they're brilliant."

"They don't use them because you can't stick that many people in a memory without running out of elbow room," Lichfield explained. "What goblins prefer is – well, it's rather uncomfortable."

"More uncomfortable than having your memory pulled out?" Harry asked. "I had trouble blinking for an hour after that."

"Imagine that about half a dozen times but having to relive snippets of your life over again in between and you'll have a vague idea of what's going to happen."

"I'm never going to be able to blink again."

.o0O0o.

Mr. Granger looked up from his Arcane Book of Arcane Arcaneness as the balding, kinda pudgy, red–headed man and his goblin buddy approached his chair–fort.

"Halt, who goes there!" he cried, peering between the cushions.

"You're to wait here until we're through with your son," the goblin buddy said to the man before turning to leave, brazenly disrespecting the honor of his fort–o–chairs.

"Er–," the wacky wizard said in his wacky wizarding way as he gazed upon the Granger Chair–Fortress of Solitude. "Was this their doing or yours?"

Mr. Granger's frizzy head popped out of the top, still wearing his throw pillow hat as he contemplated the question.

"I get bored really easily and they left me alone," he told the man. "So if I tell you the truth you'll think I'm weird."

"Wonderfully weird," the man agreed as he began tearing apart the fort chair–by–chair. "I'm supposed to keep you from talking."

"Unlike what my daughter would tell you, I actually can guard my tongue when I need to. But good luck with that nonetheless," the dentist said noncommittally. "Though now that they think I'm crazy there's really no need," he nodded to where the formerly–hovering goblin buddies were now standing far across the lobby at the doors themselves.

Mr. Granger frowned as his Hat of Command slumped off his head and tumbled to the floor. He resigned himself to his fate and joined the fort razing. Once the chairs had been arranged in a completely different way than when he'd gotten there, he turned back to his interior design friend.

"So what's going on with the kids?" he asked.

"Apparently they've got a bad case of spattergroit," the ginger man said as he sat.

"Ah, well then," he smiled. "They're sure to have that licked in no time. The lawyer–man had a very potato look to him." Taking a seat by the ginger man, Mr. Granger poked his shoulder. "So, what do you do when you do that voodoo that you do so well?"

.o0O0o.

Lognot slammed the table so hard Barchoke wondered if he broke his hand.

"Impossible! Impossible!" the bulging–eyed Overseer cried, darting nervous glances from one person to another. "We have six hundred years of security protections in place–"

With a snagging, ripping sensation Barchoke drew his dagger and plunged it into the table in front of him.

"You _had_ six hundred years of them in place before you became Overseer and decided to cut costs!" Barchoke cut him short. He felt his blood sing as he thrust an accusing finger at the goblin from Confidential like it were a spare dagger. "For six hundred years guards were housed between Above and Below, trained there, flowing in and out of your special department – until _you_ changed that."

Gotts how he was enjoying this; was this how his forefathers felt when they had faced their foes?

"Now you have a set division," Barchoke pressed. "You have them living at that tower, eating with them, talking with them, befriending them, washing their sheets and cleaning their floors – they're not their jailers anymore, they're their friends – their _servants!"_

Spittle flew from his lips as he pursued his panicked prey but he didn't care; nothing mattered but devastating the opposition. The fact that he had always got along with Lognot, always respected his quiet demeanor, made his attacks all the more pleasant for being unexpected.

"This Breach could have happened at any time! How many Stones are there," Barchoke outlined the horrifying scenario that had just popped into his head. "One, two, a hundred? The one you say we have under lock and key: is it really there, a fake – or one of a thousand others?"

"Impossible!" the lone Overseer said as he stared at him in disbelief, as if that word held some power to make this all go away. "What game is this?" he cried. "How can you know so much about Confidential Affairs?"

"Because you read like an empty ledger," Barchoke shot back, insulting Lognot's father by spitting on his name. "Confidential Affairs is now the most misnamed department outside the Ministry's Centaur Liaison Office, and you must be held to account for it."

"You're taking the word of _children,_" the wide–eyed Lognot panted, desperately seeking any kind of escape. "Why would the Stone be at Hogwarts? How did it get there? Was that one real or a fake? We don't even know if it was even there!"

"I assure you," Barnabas Marsh was quick to insert as fear that the issue might focus on him again spiked. "The Hogwarts Accounting Department knew nothing about the Stone being held at Hogwarts. The Board of Governors will be furious."

Barchoke had no doubt that the human would go running to them as soon as the building reopened. If that was his game, Barchoke decided to let them really know fear.

"That child is none other than Harry Potter," Barchoke declared. "He described the Stone, the protections around it – _he had held it in his hand!"_ He looked from Lognot to the human Marsh, to Little Minister Bankor. "If he's prepared to stand up and call the Chief Warlock to account for abandonment and fraud – and have the evidence to back it up – what makes you think he's lying now? Who do you think the public will believe – him, or some goblin they've never heard of who keeps shouting 'impossible' in order to make his problems disappear?"

With more of a tug than he'd thought it'd take, he withdrew his dagger from the table and held it in an underhand grip. As the others sat in silence he glanced over to Overseer Gutripper, noticing that he held his in the same way. It certainly made it easier to gouge the table if nothing else. The goblin's expression was unreadable; he took that to be preferable to his usual malevolence.

The first to recover was the last one he expected.

"FRAUD!" the Grand Overseer roared, trying to slam his corpulent fist on the table and missing my inches. "Pull the files, drag him in, seize every knut he has!" Largrot demanded.

The table resounded as two daggers impacted as one and Barchoke was astounded to find that his was one of them. He gouged the table on the Grand Overseer – he gouged the table on the Grand Overseer! He's never seen anyone ever do that.

To allay his growing panic he glanced at the other dagger embedded in the table and up to Gutripper who held it. His face still had that unreadable expression but he hadn't opened his mouth either to speak an objection or to shout him down – he just _watched_.

He might have gouged the table on the Grand Overseer but he hadn't been the only one. Barchoke had trodden on too many toes this meeting that if he turned back now, if he looked weak, they'd gladly tear him apart and blame the whole thing on him for his audacity. All he could do now was hope that Gutripper saw the threats as he did because only together could they fend off the objections of Marsh and Lognot if they chose to support hiding from the real danger and chasing after fraud instead of going after the Stone.

For one brief moment Barchoke wanted to laugh at the madness of the situation. The whole meeting now boiled down to needing Gutripper to support him, the one goblin who wouldn't spit on him if he were dying of thirst.

"A Breach of the Flamel Agreement far outweighs any accusation of fraud," Barchoke said, trying to work moisture back into his suddenly dry throat. "The Goblin Nation stood surety on his behalf. We are the ones who will face the world's ire unless we take this matter in hand. We must investigate the claim and bring our findings to the appropriate authorities to contain the situation."

Barchoke's eyes darted from one Overseer to another gauging their thoughts. None seemed to like the prospect. Finally he met Gutripper's eyes again before the other goblin turned to the Overseers.

"I concur," Gutripper said with a twitch in his bad eye. "Even we cannot fight the whole world at once, and none of your talk," he said to Bankor, "will keep the Ministry at bay or keep the galleon afloat for a single day if he's right."

He was relieved when Gutripper withdrew his dagger and let his point stand. Largrot looked around as if unsure why everyone was still there when he'd given them an order, though if the fat goblin had spared a moment to think he would've realized that that was the first time he'd tried to give an actual order in years. The Grand Overseer's power had been in custom, in name, in fear, but not in truth, not for years. The Overseers had simply decided things amongst themselves but deferred to him if required for fear of being cut down by others. Now, left out on his own, Largrot seemed truly lost.

All they had to do now was move to the Pit, see the evidence, and deal with the technical details of how to respond.

"Um–," the odd foreign goblin said in the silence that followed. "You will be telling us of this Agreement now, yes? My friend and I are lost. Aren't you lost?" Alkrat asked Overseer Marsh quickly. "I am lost," he answered himself.

Barchoke could have groaned; this was going to take forever.

.o0O0o.

"The Agreement is what's been keeping Flamel from being killed," Hermione said. "Why would he break it now?"

"He's immortal," Ron pointed out the obvious. "They can't kill him; it's a wonder why he kept the Stone at all if they won't let him use it."

"He didn't keep it, Ron," she said testily. "Gringotts did. Haven't you been listening?"

As the wait stretched on and on they eventually made their way back to the topic of Flamel, though Harry had only paid it half a mind.

"True immortality like that doesn't exist," Lichfield declared. "And there's a big difference between not getting old and not being able to die," he said humorlessly. "A lot of people tried to kill him before Flamel landed here, the French were particularly livid. How many governments do you know would enjoy having their currency become worthless overnight? That's what we're facing here on a global scale," he told Ron, who finally seemed to get how big of a deal the Stone really was.

"But as to your point," he continued with a finger pointed at Ron. "With the darkest magic you could gain a kind of immortality, sure – but you'd still age and your body could still be killed. You think you're pretty now? Imagine what you'd look like in six hundred years."

"Then what's the point of living forever if you're going to be all old and wrinkly?" Ron asked the wrinkly old man.

"That's why you make the Stone," Lichfield explained. "It keeps you young and healthy, but even that kind of immortality has a price: once you start taking the Elixir you can't stop or you're dead. Time doesn't like to stand still and the Stone only stops the clock for seven years, after that it'll rush to make up the difference, if not take more from you. It's a horrible way to die. That's one of the reasons I didn't like it when Barchoke told me about the Agreement years ago, the only real decision Flamel has left is to decide when to die."

Harry thought that really was a depressing way to live: locked up in a tower on some remote island, free to do whatever you wanted as long as you didn't leave. You couldn't write anyone without a team of people looking over it, nothing you made could leave without being scrutinized for years just to make sure you didn't pass along your secret; and while people could visit, they'd be made to forget their trip out of fear of you doing the same, with few exceptions. It was a wonder why Flamel had bothered to live as long as he did in the first place.

"That's why he gave the Stone to Dumbledore," Harry said finally, remembering what the man had told him at the end of last year. "If he'd decided that he didn't want to live anymore, it'd make sense for him to give the Stone to someone he trusted. Mrs. Weasley said they've been working on cures for decades – he must've done it so he could continue on without him."

"That's a good working theory," Lichfield nodded. "That's probably what your professors thought he was doing with it, and why they'd be so keen on protecting that area of Hogwarts. They may have even thought he'd gotten the go-ahead. The I.C.W. will investigate to make sure. If that's really the case, they'll end up looking like fools and the whole country will be embarrassed on the world stage, but that's better than being hauled off to Azkaban."

"What's Azkaban?" he asked curiously.

"It's a wizarding prison," Hermione answered. "From what I've read it's worst sort of place imaginable."

"It's the guards you want to watch out for," Ron said. "They'll suck out your soul if they get the chance."

Harry thought he'd rather put himself under goblin jurisdiction like Flamel did. Surely the Ministry wouldn't use some sort of soul-sucking vampire as prison guards. When he looked to Lichfield for confirmation though what he saw was the grizzled old lawyer giving him the same kind of look he had when he was debating whether or not to bring something up.

Whatever it was the old man wasn't saying got pushed aside as the iron door to the room opened and a lean, hard goblin with a buzz-cut and a nasty scar over a milky white eye entered the room, scanning it for any threat. Lichfield put his hands flat on the table and slowly stood; he didn't look like he'd been anticipating this particular goblin to be the one to show up.

"Overseer Gutripper, I'm–"

"Barchoke's pet," the goblin interrupted. "I've heard of you. Why are you here?"

The fact that the grizzled old bailiff didn't respond with a quip, that he appeared to be the same rank as Barchoke, and that scar of his, made Harry pretty sure this was the infamous goblin in charge of security.

"These three are clients of mine in regards to a civil issue of Mr. Potter's that may result in criminal fraud charges if our case is successful," Lichfield explained calmly. "Since ours has been a joint inquiry, I would ask to be with them when they are questioned, in case any new issues are uncovered – like this one has been – that may be helpful to our case."

Slowly Lichfield handed over the legal retainer paperwork to the Overseer. This Gutripper glanced at forms and tossed them back on the table before scrutinizing the three of them.

"Which of you has the insane father waiting in the lobby?" Gutripper asked Ron and Hermione as Harry noticed a faint pink blur in the center of his blinded eye.

"Er–," Ron said uncertainly.

"He's not dead, is he?" Hermione asked timidly.

"Take him to the Pit," the goblin commanded, pointing to Ron as others from the hall sprang forward. Ron seemed petrified, though through fear or from what Lichfield suggested they do earlier was tough to say.

As he got to the doorway, Gutripper glanced back at the litigator. "Do I need a leash?" he asked before leaving the room.

"I'll be back – hopefully. Don't worry," Lichfield muttered as he picked up the retainer paperwork and scurried after them, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

She sprang up as soon as the door was closed, pacing back and forth with her hands to her mouth like she wanted to puke. Harry stood as well since it seemed odd to sit, but really didn't know what to say. He felt like he should do something with his hands, like put one on her shoulder or something to help calm her down but quickly discarded the idea. Doing anything restrictive would probably make her panic.

Barchoke had warned him during his last visit that dealing with goblins was really nothing like what he'd seen between him and Lichfield but Harry hadn't thought it'd be this different. It was almost like they were from a completely different planet.

_'__Well_,' Harry thought, _'they are a different race of Being. The question is what do they want?'_

He was kind of surprised at how quickly that changed things in his head. While it gave him some ideas to go on, none of them helped at all with the issue of Hermione's dad. They asked who had the crazy father but then took Ron first. Was that because they took his 'Er' as an answer, because they thought Mr. Weasley was crazier than Mr. Granger, or–

"I think they just want your dad out of the bank as quickly as you do," Harry said finally, his stomach squirming hoping he was right. After all, once they were through with the child the parent had no reason to stick around.

"You don't say something like that if they're already dead or were planning to kill them," he went on to say. "They just took the wrong person. Ron has Lichfield with him and I'm sure your dad will be fine."

Whatever he said must've been right because the next time her pacing took her near him she darted towards him and hugged him for all she was worth. Once again Harry didn't know what to do with his arms and hands. Comforting Dobby was one thing, but this was Hermione; she–

With a settling feeling in his stomach Harry knew exactly what was going on. Hermione's world had been completely turned upside down and he was her portable little island of calm. Glad for once that he could return the favor of being that for her, Harry put his arms around her and held her like it seemed she needed. It somehow made him feel taller.

Her hold on him shifted after a moment so that it wasn't so tight, but she didn't let go.

"Thanks, Harry."

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Ending things here was a tricky decision to make. Of course, I wanted to wrap up this entire issue all in one go and had resolved not to split things up again, but also wanted to try and post something roughly every two weeks or so at most if I could conceivably do it.

That last little moment where Harry's able to be there for her in a way he should've been in canon but never was, was a really good note to end on though. It's not an explicitly romantic moment, though them being together gives it that slight undertone; it's much more of a caring and comforting moment that encompasses every aspect that you could possibly conceive of about that relationship as a whole without having to say anything about it, so that's why I decided to end it there.

Anyway, thanks for reading.


	17. Promotions Earned With Blood

**AN:** Because of all the different goblins involved, a short reminder is probably needed.

Largrot, the really fat and narcoleptic Grand Overseer. Gutripper, the half-blind and hostile head of Security. Lognot, the head of Confidential Affairs that handles Flamel and the Sorcerer's Stone. Fillast, "The Director" of day-to-day operations for the Gringotts building itself. Barnabas Marsh, "The Human" in charge of the Hogwarts Accounting Department. "The Little Minister" Bankor, in charge of Ministerial Matters. "The Foreigner" Alkrat, in charge of Corporate Accounts. Slaggran, the pudgy and wheezing head of Personal Accounts. Braglast, the ever-silent Supervisor of Dodgy Deals. Barchoke, in charge of Hereditary Accounts.

**Warning:** Parts of this chapter are intentionally disjointed. I warned everyone that I'm not going to make this easy. You've all read the first book and the story to this point so you should have no trouble keeping up.

All snippets from Sorcerer's Stone come from the American version of the book. I am still not JKR; I just blended her work in.

.o0O0o.

The Burrow was unnaturally tense; Ginny didn't like it. Even with the Wizarding Wireless droning on about the latest news it wasn't like when they were younger and they all gathered around to listen to Charlie's first games of Quidditch straight from Hogwarts. She'd been too young to really remember Bill's first games but assumed they'd been the same.

They had been an exciting kind of tense, one that made you break out in a grin for no reason and cheer as soon as their names were called, even when they were hundreds of miles away and couldn't hear you. This felt like something bad was happening out there and they were left to wait around and find out what it is, and without being able to do anything to help.

_'Was this how it felt with You–Know–Who?'_ she wondered.

Her parents, Bill and Charlie, and even Percy had all said that the younger kids couldn't understand what it had really been like back then. Percy only remembered bits and pieces, and the twins not at all, but Percy remembered enough. Mum and Dad gathered around the wireless after sending them to bed, talking in whispers about this or that; always very quiet, afraid, or sad.

_'But all of that stopped,_' she thought as she unsuccessfully tried to occupy herself by checking what she had with her school list.

They hadn't gotten everything before the goblins had come for Dad and Ron, but what they hadn't bought didn't seem that important without them; even Ron. He might have been the one responsible for running her off every time she had tried to play with the others but that didn't mean she wanted the goblins to take him – well, not as long as he had Dad with him too.

_'Harry defeated You–Know–Who and he's dead and gone and never coming back,_' she thought as she tried to soothe her jumbly stomach.

_'The books had said all that was a lie though,_' her fear reminded her.

The books about Harry – no, about the Boy–Who–Lived – had been full of plots by polite–seeming but nefarious–minded cut–throats scheming to control the wizarding world in secret, hunting down their adversaries, and seeking a way to return their mysterious Dark Master to life after years of Banishment in the Hereafter, and only Har – no, the Boy–Who–Lived – could stop them.

_'The books are nothing but stories,_' Ginny told herself firmly._ 'Little adventure tales where the hero defeats the villain, saves the girl, professes his love, and gets a True Love's Kiss at the end of it. They're not real._'

_'What about Harry and the bouncing broom?'_ that annoying part of her asked. _'What about facing the giant three–headed dog, fighting free from the devil's snare, and outsmarting the giant chess set?'_

Ron might've been annoying, and rude to boot, but he'd come home with a huge tale to tell. Her brother had made it seem like it was pretty much him doing everything, but she knew it'd all been Harry; even the bit with the troll shouted hero in a way that Ron would never be able to live up to. And he had said that You–Know–Who had been there too. He hadn't seen him, but Harry had, and had defeated him again.

Even if that had just been something to throw in there to make it seem exciting, she couldn't deny – even if what her brother said was only half truthful about everything else – that bad things did swirl around Harry Potter, be he the Boy–Who–Lived or just this plain Harry. Maybe he was a hero after all. That thought didn't comfort her because things had already gone so… well, so terribly _wrong_.

Harry was never supposed to save anyone else – well, he was never supposed to save anyone other than her anyway. He had saved Hermione Granger though and messed up all Ginny's hopes and dreams in the process. And now she was his _girlfriend_, though Ginny had never heard him use that word. Hopefully he never would.

She didn't want to think ill of anyone, let alone have anyone die, but if Hermione Granger simply hadn't been there then perhaps she still would've had a chance to have the hero of her dreams. Harry might not be that now, and far too into studying from what she'd seen – heroes didn't need to study, they just _did_ things – but he could always change, couldn't he? Couldn't he become a hero later on?

From watching her mother when Charlie had brought his first girlfriend over, Ginny knew precisely what not to do: she couldn't try to break them up. It wouldn't work and anything she tried would only make them closer. Plus, it'd make him hate her even more than he already does.

_'Creepy indeed,_' she thought. _'Doesn't he know what gazing longingly at someone's supposed to look like, what it's supposed to mean?'_ Having her mother make her stay away from him was going too far though. If she was looking for proof that this Harry wasn't the boy from the books then she didn't have to look any further than that. Harry Potter wasn't the Boy–Who–Lived, he was just a skinny kid with glasses and messy hair and an ugly scar on his forehead._ 'He'd probably have pimples soon too,_' she sulked.

But that niggling sense of doubt remained; what if he changed? If only Ron hadn't been born then perhaps she would've been bumped up in the queue. Then _she_ would've been in Harry's year instead of Ron; she would've been the one to meet him on the train and become friends with him straight away. She might have even been the one to get attacked by the troll, saved by him, and she'd be in Hermione's place now. It would've been perfect!

Giving things a good hard look, Ginny had to admit that her mother had been right. She had had the amazing opportunity to get to know the real Harry Potter, and maybe even become friends with him, and she had blown it because her head had been too full of Book Harry for her to realize it. With the way things were now, even if they broke up – no, _when_ not if, because they would, Charlie and that girl had after all – even then, Harry wouldn't want her around, much less be interested in creepy little Ginny. And if she wasn't around then how could she get her hero when he changed into one? It was a nightmare.

There was a shift in the background noise and before Ginny could pick up on what it meant her mother descended upon Fred as he and George came back downstairs.

"Don't you turn that down," her mother scolded, Fred's hand still on the wireless. "They might say something about Gringotts."

"They hadn't said anything important for an hour," Fred said defensively.

"Yeah, why would anyone think Bulgaria tearing itself apart in a bloody civil war again was important?" George said with a look to his twin. How anyone could fail to tell them apart was beyond her.

"No talking about tearing anything apart while your father and brother are still with those goblins," their mother said looking concerned. "Did you get Charlie's old trunk out like I told you?" she asked, trying to distract them all with other things.

"Yeah, it was a bit more beat up than we thought–," Fred said.

"–So I took it instead. Ginny can have mine," George gave Ginny a quick wink to say that he was glad to do it.

_'Fred might be a bit much sometimes, but George was a nice guy. We should find him a girlfriend_,' she decided. _'Oh! Then I'd have a sister! I wonder if he'd be interested in Hermione_,' Ginny wondered. _'As long as she and Harry didn't kiss then it didn't mean anything and everyone could still be friends_.' That thought made her smile more than the newer hand–me–down.

"That's nice of you, George," their mother said as she went to check the clock again.

No one's hand had changed positions since they had gotten home. Merlin alone knew where Percy was, he hadn't been with them and Mum didn't want to let anyone out of her sight to search for him. He, Dad, and Ron were still all pointing at Traveling, which seemed to be for when the clock didn't know where else to put them. But at least they weren't pointing to Mortal Peril so she guessed they couldn't be in too much trouble.

"Ginny, go on and take the rest of your things up to your room. We can find out what all we need later once your father gets back," her mother said, probably coming to the same conclusion she had about what the clock meant as she reluctantly pried herself away before disappearing into her comforting kitchen. By the time they got home there'd probably be enough food prepared to feed them all for a week.

Gathering her things together, Ginny made the trek up to her room where she found George's old trunk sitting on her bed. Taking out the new quill that her mother had gotten her, an ordinary feather charmed to look like the peacock's feather Lockhart had, she ticked off what she had from her list as she transferred them to the trunk.

Some of the books would need to be mended, and she didn't want to know how they had burned the back cover of her Charms book, but the important stuff seemed to be there. All except Lockhart's books that is, her Dad had been thrown out of the store before they could buy them. If there was one thing she was glad about it was that Harry hadn't been there to see the fight get started. What that blond boy and his father said was horrible; she certainly didn't want Harry to think those things.

Surely someone besides her own brother would be interested in her one day. Call it 'the Grand Tradition' or not, the thought of marrying part of her own family made her feel icky and wrong. People might've done it two hundred years ago, and evil people like that might want to still do it now, but she'd die alone and unloved – like Great–Aunt Muriel would – before she'd do a thing like that.

At the bottom of the cauldron Ginny found something odd. It was a small, somewhat worn, black leather journal like the ones her mum had taken to writing ideas in. It certainly wasn't on the list. She flipped it open to see if it was hers but didn't find anything inside. It was old, but blank. The only thing she could find was a reference to a Vauxhall Road and the name Tom Marvolo Riddle.

It had to be a diary! She had always wanted a diary. Luna's mum said she had had one ever since she was a little girl but Ginny's mum had never gotten her one. Whoever this Tom Riddle was had obviously never used his; it was probably an unwanted Christmas gift that was sold off and never thought of again.

Ginny squirmed as she stood thinking about it. If she asked her mum whether she'd gotten the book for her she could say yes, but she might say no and use it herself. She supposed she could always hide it and wait to see if her mother asked where it was, but if she lied and tried to keep it her mum had already found all of her book–stashing hiding places.

A devious smile bloomed on her face as Ginny came up with the perfect plan. She'd write her name in it and just start using it, that way if her mother wanted to take it she'd be wracked with guilt and couldn't do it. Besides, with Harry renting a room there was sure to be enough money to buy all the journals her mother could want, there was no reason she had to have this one.

Ginny ran to her little writing desk by the window and filled her quill with ink.

_'This diary belongs to Ginny Weasley_,' she wrote on the first page. Ginny thought of adding 'Keep Out!' but reckoned that would only make the twins want to read more should they ever find it. Oh! Maybe she could find some way to bewitch it so they couldn't once she got to Hogwarts.

Coming out of her little daydream, she was shocked to find the page completely blank. She quickly checked the next page it just in case she'd flipped it accidentally. There was nothing there; everything was just blank. Her mother had bought a bum book. Who'd bewitch a diary so that you couldn't write anything in it? Ginny was about to take the journal to her mother to say that she could have it when something truly bizarre happened. The book wrote back.

_'Hello, Ginny Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle. It's very nice to meet you. It's been quite some time since anyone has written in this diary. However did you manage to come by it?'_

She didn't know if it was the uncertainty with the goblins or just because he was gone, but her father's voice suddenly rang loudly in her ears. _'Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain_.'

B–But that didn't make any sense. Wouldn't a book keep its brain in itself? But wait, what about the clock? It was a clock; it didn't have a brain, so how was it supposed to know where to place the hands on it without one? And what about pictures and paintings that move about on their own and talk? Even their Ford Anglia had a compass that pointed you in the direction you were supposed to go and none of them had a brain at all.

Then the answer came to her. Magic and magical items could be dangerous if you didn't know what to do. It was just one of those things that parents say to make you cautious, even if they weren't really dangerous at all. Don't run downhill. Don't fly too high. Don't play with your brother's wand. Don't trust anything without a brain. The answer to why the diary was there came easily after that.

_'An enchanted friend for the friendless?'_ she asked the book in writing.

_'Something like that_,' came the response._ 'I can be your friend. The real Tom – the one who made this book what it is – he never really had many friends. He was always alone, even at Hogwarts. That's why he made this, once he learned enough. It was tough, but he thought that if he could prevent even one person from having to be alone like he was then it'd all be worth it. So what do you think, can we be friends?' _

It – He – Tom, that is, had been alone like her. The boys had always had each other, but most of the time they didn't talk to her unless it was to make fun of her or tease her. But Tom couldn't make fun of her, not really, he was in a book. He had to be nice or she'd stop writing and he'd have no one to talk to until the next person came along, and who knows when that'd be?

Looking at it this way, her mother's plan made a lot of sense. All of her problems had come from longing for a boy who lived in a book, and here's a boy who actually _does_ live in a book – well, that seems to anyway. Who better to be a friend to a girl like that? Her mother probably thought that she'd end up forgetting all about Tom once she made some real friends like she had forgotten about Luna.

_'Fat chance_,' Ginny thought. She had never forgotten about Luna; you never forget your very first friend. There were still days that she hoped to see her making her way over the hill towards the Burrow; that's why her desk still faced the window, so she'd never miss her if she did.

_'I'd like that_,' she wrote to Tom. She'd already lost one friend, she wasn't about to lose another.

.o0O0o.

The Pit was one of the less well-built places in the levels below Gringotts, from what he had seen. Lester Lichfield couldn't say anything for sure about the area known as Below, but from what Barchoke had said it was supposed to be very rough. The Pit was a dim echo of that. It had been built as a hand–to–hand fighting ring where duels and matters of vengeance could be settled in a communal, entertaining, and money–making way; where promotions could be earned with blood.

Thankfully it had fallen out of favor as generation after generation of bankers pushed the others lower and lower down and built a bulwark of guards between them. Lester didn't know what would happen if that bulwark ever failed, but right now it didn't matter. He would've preferred they take Harry through the process first, but Overseer Gutripper hadn't been too choosy, so Ginger got grabbed instead; he was just lucky to come along – even if it was only to stand to the side and not speak, though that was only very heavily implied.

Inquisitor Inkgotts fluttered around the chair the ginger kid was strapped into in the center of the former ring–of–death. Lester wanted to tell the kid not to panic and that he was in the best of hands but the truth of the matter was he'd never seen this done on a human before. It'd been done a time or two, but from what he'd heard it was really disorienting. Goblins might compartmentalize their memories as naturally as they do their vaults, but humans had a much harder time with it. Odds are everything would be all thrown together at the same time.

Lowering the rubbery plunger–thingy onto the kid's head and attaching the connected tube to a repurposed muggle moving picture projector, Inkgotts turned and raised his head to the Overseers in the stands above.

"We're ready," he said.

"Show us how you learned of the Sorcerer's Stone," Overseer Gutripper commanded before the others could say anything.

Instantly a silvery–gray filament threaded its way through the tube and whipped through the projector to be displayed high on the far wall for everyone in the small group to see.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term," the Dumbledore in the memory said, standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, presumably during the start–of–term notices. "Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third–floor corridor on the right–hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

With a flicker the memory changed.

A lamp flared to life showing the wild–haired Hermione, who was wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown. She'd obviously been waiting for them in the Gryffindor Common Room.

_"You!"_ Memory–Ginger said furiously. "Go back to bed!"

"I almost told your brother," Memory–Hermione snapped, "Percy – he's a prefect, he'd put a stop to this."

The memory flickered again; either the kid was scatter–brained or was suffering from nerves. Even squinting to make out what came next didn't help; it was very dark and the little glints of light off gold and crystal didn't tell him much.

"RUN!" Memory–Harry yelled before he, Ginger, the girl, and some pudgy kid sprinted down the sparkly dark room, swung around the doorpost and ran through the halls of Hogwarts – why, he didn't know, but he could only grin at remembering the mischief he and Charlus had gotten up to there.

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" Peeves the poltergeist bellowed after yet another flicker, "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!"

Flicker.

"Oh, move over," Hermione snarled as she knocked Ginger aside to stand in front of a random door at Hogwarts and grabbing Harry's wand.

Flicker.

Harry, Hermione, and several Weasleys were standing in Flourish and Blotts.

"I like my hair messy," she told the ginger kid before messing up Harry's hair, making Lester have to stifle a laugh.

Flicker.

Lester found himself looking up, both at the projected memory and in the projected memory as a three–headed dog played tricks with his eyes. Who'd build a scale model of a Hogwarts hallway for a doghouse? As a thunderous set of growls and rolling mad eyes sparked movement in the lower section of the memory suddenly the proportions changed dramatically to his eye. That wasn't a tiny hallway, _that was a huge dog!_

Flicker.

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" the ginger kid said in his memory, echoing Lester's thoughts. "If any dog needs exercise, that one does."

"You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" the girl snapped. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

With another flicker in the memory, Lichfield felt himself jump slightly as an adolescent black dragon snapped out at them. What in Merlin's name were a dragon and a giant dog doing at Hogwarts if the Stone wasn't there?

Flicker.

"Charlie!" Harry said, turning to look at the ginger kid.

"You're losing it, too," Ginger said. "I'm Ron, remember?"

_'Oh, so that's what Ginger's name is_,' Lester thought. He liked Ginger better.

The memory flickered again, sending a man in a purple turban to the floor in a dead faint and causing an uproar in the Great Hall.

Several purple firecrackers exploding from Dumbledore's wand stilled the rampaging gaggle of frightened kids as the old man rumbled, "Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

The next flicker showed the two boys back in a Hogwarts hallway.

_"Hermione!"_ they said together before wheeling around and running back to a door, fumbling with a key, and running inside.

The girl was cowering against the far wall of a bathroom, looking as if she was about to faint. A troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

Flicker.

"Oy, pea–brain!" Ron yelled, throwing a metal pipe at it. The troll paused and turned its ugly snout toward him.

The next flicker put the three of them sitting in a classroom.

"You're saying it wrong," the girl snapped at Ron the Ginger. "It's Wing–_gar_–dium Levi–_o_–sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

The memory then flickered back to the troll as the ginger pulled out his wand must've cast the first thing that came to mind.

_"Wingardium Leviosa!"_

Lester stared curiously as the club slipped out of the troll's hand, rose high into the air, turned slowly over – and dropped, cracking its owner's head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole memory tremble. How Harry had made it onto the troll's back Lester didn't know if he wanted to know.

The projector died for a moment as the kid recovered a bit.

"Wicked," the ginger kid said before the projector flickered to life again.

.o0O0o.

"We've got to get one," the red–haired kid told his dad as he concluded his tale. "It was mad, but brilliant!"

Safe and comfortable in the lobby's unwanted visitor's section, the kid named Ron had started spilling everything – as soon as he could speak coherently that was – going on and on like a – well, like a twelve year old who'd just been on his first roller-coaster. He had learned more about his daughter's first year at Hogwarts in the last half hour than he had heard from her during the entire summer.

It was obvious as to why she'd done it, though he couldn't help but feel a little sad for it. Raise her right and teach her to think critically and she still ran straight into a twelve foot troll, giant three–headed dog, and an evil chemistry teacher – though that last one was a danger wherever you went. Chemistry teachers were evil, evil people; it was probably the fumes that turned them all into mad scientists.

"Ah, here she comes," Arthur said drawing his attention to his wobbly–legged daughter as she made her way towards them with her goblin buddies.

"Are you alright?" the frizzy–haired dentist asked as the goblins moved away.

Hermione seemed to ponder that in an 'I just had a lot of laughing gas' kind of way.

"Blueberry?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him questioningly.

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes,'" he said with a smile as Ron snorted at her answer. The kid didn't really have much to kid her about though. What was a 'snuffle–wampum' anyway? He checked his watch as his daughter's brain rebooted.

"If we really hurry we might still be able to get everything before the shops close," he said more to himself than anyone else. They'd still be late in getting home though.

"No," his daughter said with a scowl, holding her hands out in front of him to keep him in his seat. She must've rebooted into Puckle mode. "Harry's still in there; we can't just leave."

He looked at his daughter; he knew what she was doing. Having just been through what the boy was going through, she couldn't be concerned with the boy's health; she was concerned with the health of their not–a–date date. After a moment Hermione's eyes flickered to the Weasleys and her look became beseeching; begging him not to make her say it.

"Alright," he said, giving her a small reprieve. "I suppose we can stay the night and head back tomorrow morning. That roach motel we entered through rents rooms, doesn't it?" he asked Arthur.

"Er – yes, but I don't know anyone who's ever stayed there," Mr. Weasley answered. "I'd invite you to stay with us but wouldn't want to spring you on Molly like that. I'll be in enough trouble as it is."

"And we wouldn't want to intrude," Mr. Granger said honestly, thinking that would indeed be too much.

"If we make it tomorrow afternoon I could probably go with Harry when he meets Professor McGonagall," Hermione said hopefully.

Ron snorted. "Leave it to Hermione to squeeze a little school into her break," he said with a smile.

She shot him a reproachful look.

"You could pay a little more attention to your schooling, Ron," the boy's father said. "You really don't seem to appreciate it. I wish I had when I was your age."

"Plus, teachers tend to cut you a little slack if you treat them like human beings, it confuses them," Mr. Granger told the boy, who was staring at him like he was still wearing the throw–pillow.

"So can we?" his daughter asked with those big brown eyes of hers.

He felt the invisible lead he led her around on as a parent lengthen yet again. He didn't like how quickly they went from walking home with you from school hand–in–hand, jabbering on about what they learned that day, to keeping huge sections of their life a secret but figured that unless he tied a big rock to the top of her head every night there was no way to keep her from growing up. And with his luck she'd end up squashed and looking like one of those goblins. Then Grumpypants Stealyourwallet from earlier might become family.

That only left him with the same two choices again: either be the typical father and make her fight him for every inch of freedom when there was ultimately no way for him to win, or let her go and take the first tentative steps by herself and the examine the world on her own. He just wished it didn't hurt so much to watch her walk away.

"Oh, alright," he said with an exaggeratedly put–upon sigh to hide his heart. "But you're the one that has to find a way to let your mother know – without leaving the building," he smiled, knowing he was going to let her do it anyway. His little feminist liked to earn everything herself though. Good for her.

Instantly his Little Puckle started computing the perfect plan; it came surprisingly quickly. With a glance to the goblin guards, she looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"I need money," she said.

.o0O0o.

"They're getting antsy," Barchoke said, fiddling with his Concealer as he and Lichfield huddled with Harry by the odd device at the center of the room. The operator of it glanced at them anxiously from a little ways off, wanting to begin.

"Marsh is up there trying to convince everyone that I've been taken in by some kids' prank or grand conspiracy theory," the goblin groused. "The others are now hungry enough to listen. It's just my luck that girl had cats on the brain."

"To be fair, there were a couple of other things that popped up regularly too," Lichfield said with a hint of a glance his way that Harry chose not to notice. He hadn't had the chance to see Ron or Hermione after they were done, and waiting was not a pleasant experience.

"Just stick to what's important and I'll try to keep them from distracting you like they did her," the goblin told him.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"The ginger kid–," Lichfield said.

"–Ron," Harry interrupted.

"–Right," the old bailiff continued. "Well, he was pretty scatter–brained, which left them with more questions than answers. That had them trying to piece things together – most of the time out loud – which kept diverting her when she was actually doing a pretty good job on her own."

"We've pretty much pieced together your investigation all the way until you got separated," Barchoke explained. "Just show us the Stone and blood will flow," the goblin said eagerly. "Er – metaphorically," he clarified at a look from Harry before scurrying off back to the others.

"Clear your mind," Lichfield advised as the operator goblin led him to the chair and started to strap him down. "But stay focused. Just go with the flow, but concentrate on guiding it if you can," he said paradoxically as the plunger got stuck to Harry's head.

"You ready?" Barchoke called down from the overlooking ring, sending Lichfield sliding back to one side and out of the way.

Harry had never felt less ready. What if he forgot everything and nothing happened at all? What if it started replaying in his entire life and when it got to here, it started all over again? No, he had to focus; he knew what he had to do, kind of – he hoped.

"Show us the end, with the Stone," Barchoke said from the stands above him.

With a lurch in his stomach Harry found himself passing through the curtain of black flames and getting quite a shock. Someone was already there – but it wasn't Snape. It wasn't even Voldemort. It was Quirrell.

_"You!"_ gasped Harry.

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all.

"Me," he said calmly.

"Who's he?" a goblin asked from somewhere.

Before he could wonder where the goblin had come from there was another lurch in his stomach and Harry found himself standing in the Leaky Cauldron with Hagrid.

"P–P–Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell. For some reason it seemed odd to see him without a turban, but the thought disappeared as the young professor grasped his hand. "C–can't t–tell you how p–pleased I am to meet you."

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?" he asked curiously.

"D–Defense Against the D–D–Dark Arts," muttered the young man, as though he'd rather not think about it.

With a rushing sensation Harry found himself back in the bowels of Hogwarts.

"I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter," Quirrell mused.

"But I thought – Snape–"

With a lurch Harry found himself in Potions class. Hermione had her hand stretched as high into the air as it would go without leaving her seat.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Snape sneered triumphantly.

Harry tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.

He was on the Hogwarts Express and the pinched face of Draco Malfoy turned to look disdainfully at Ron.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" Malfoy challenged. "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

With another lurch, Harry thought he might lose his lunch. Wait – besides the train, had he eaten lunch?

"Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms," the blonde boy said in a bored drawling voice as he stood on the other stool for his robes. "I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Malfoy snatched the package away from Harry and felt it. This seemed to be getting easier – but wait, what was he doing?

"That's a broomstick," Draco said, throwing the long, thin package back at him with a mixture of jealousy and spite. "You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

Ron had a grin on his lips as he simply couldn't resist it rubbing Malfoy's nose in it.

"It's not any old broomstick, it's a Nimbus Two Thousand," Ron crowed. "What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" He grinned at Harry. "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."

"What would you know about it, Weasley," Malfoy snapped back as if the very name was an insult. "You couldn't afford half the handle. I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig."

There was a bit of confusion as Harry found himself back on the Hogwarts Express.

Draco turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" the pinch–faced blonde said from the other stool in the robe store. "They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine."

With a slight shiver Harry found himself in the dusty little shack Uncle Vernon had dragged them all the way into the sea to find.

"I knew you'd be just the same," Aunt Petunia said sneeringly, "just as strange, just as – as – _abnormal_ – and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the gut. As soon as he found his voice he said, "Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!"

Uncle Vernon rounded on him as soon as the door to number four closed, he was so angry he could hardly speak.

"Go – cupboard – stay – no meals," he managed to say before he collapsing into a chair and left Aunt Petunia to scurry away and get him a large brandy.

"I can help you there." Draco said holding out his hand to shake Harry's like he was doing him some sort of favor. Harry didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said coolly before a pink tinge appeared in Draco's pale cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," Draco threatened. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents."

"There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin," Hagrid said darkly over their ice cream. "You–Know–Who was one."

Back on the Hogwarts Express, Draco hadn't finished.

"–They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff–raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron stood up, determined to teach this Malfoy a lesson – until the whole world just collapsed.

With a head full of wibbly–wobbly things and not able to move his charms or leave the bear, Larry was finning it shark to drink. What was he supposed to September? Something about a bone, he sought.

Back at Hogwarts, Quirrell gave a cold sharp laugh, so unlike his usual quivering treble. It made Harry's stomach lurch.

"Severus? Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he?" he mused amused.

From high up in the branches, Harry peered through the leaves and straining to hear what Quirrell was mumbling until Snape interrupted him.

"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

"B–b–b Severus, I–"

"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him.

"So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat," the turban–headed professor smiled mockingly, his back to the large mirror. "Next to him, who would suspect p–p–poor, st–stuttering P–Professor Quirrell?"

Harry couldn't take it in. This couldn't be true; it didn't make sense – even though a part of him seemed to already know this.

"But Snape tried to kill me!" he said.

"No, no, no, _I_ tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger–"

Her serious demeanor finally cracked as she started to chuckle in the middle of the pet shop; Harry was glad to join in. The exchange really had been ridiculous. When they were done she smiled at him like she used to. Yeah, her teeth were a little big, but who cared?

"–accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom."

Zigzagging through the air hundreds of feet in the sky, his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't direct it at all. Harry gripped it tightly as every now and then it made a violent swishing movement that almost knocked him off.

"The Stone!" Barchoke called from behind him.

Quirrell snapped his fingers and ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry. He had to concentrate.

"You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?"

"Come on, run, _run_!" Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to pull her toward the bathroom door, but she couldn't move, she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open with terror.

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron, who had no way to escape.

Harry took a great running leap and managed to fasten his arms around the troll's neck from behind. It howled in pain as his wand lodged up its nose and it started twisting around and flailing about with its club. Harry hung on for dear life; any second, the troll was going to rip him off or flatten him.

It was somewhat of a relief to find himself standing back with Quirrell.

"Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror," he said as he turned to study the Mirror of Erised. "This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this… but he's in London… I'll be far away by the time he gets back…"

All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and stop him from concentrating on the mirror. Even tied up as he was, Harry felt like he was sitting down somehow. He had to focus.

Quirrell blurred his way around the mirror and stared hungrily into it.

"I see the Stone… I'm presenting it to my master… but where is it?"

Harry felt oddly disconnected from his struggle against the ropes that were binding him. What had Dumbledore said about the mirror?

"It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts," the old headmaster said sagely in the deserted classroom deep in the dead of night.

Quirrell cursed under his breath.

"I don't understand," he said, starting to get frustrated. "Is the Stone _inside_ the mirror? Should I break it?"

"Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that," Dumbledore said as he smiled at him in the hospital wing. "It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to _find_ the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes…"

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!" Quirrell cried.

"Use the boy… Use the boy…" came the voice Harry had known would answer.

"Who's that?" a goblin wheezed.

In a blink he and Quirrell had changed positions; Harry thought he could almost see it happen.

"I met him when I traveled around the world," Professor Quirrell said, a pale ghost of what he once had been. "A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was."

"Impossible," a human said in the background. Harry didn't pay it any mind.

"There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too week to seek it… Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts–"

"Run by goblins," Hagrid told him as they sat in the cold, sea blown shack.

_"Goblins?"_ Harry asked, dropping the bit of sausage he was holding.

"Yeah – so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe – 'cept maybe Hogwarts."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest as he spoke to the bank teller. "It's about the You–Know–What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly – but he shouldn't be seeing this. He shouldn't be expecting to see fabulous jewels or the like when he knew what it was.

Harry looked up and saw himself looking down as Hagrid picked it up a grubby little package wrapped in brown paper from the floor and tuck it deep inside his coat. It looked like he was watching a movie. What had happened next?

"Hagrid!" Harry said excitedly, sitting in Hagrid's hut holding a newspaper clipping. "That Gringotts break–in happened on my birthday! It might've been happening while we were there!"

Hagrid didn't meet Harry's eyes as he tried to find something else to do.

Focus.

"–He was most displeased," Quirrell said. "He punished me… decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me…"

"Illuminating, but please no more distractions," Barchoke said. "Get to the Stone."

Quirrell rounded on Harry.

"Yes – Potter – come here." He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding the other Harry fell away and he got to his feet.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

Harry watched himself walk toward the man and look into the mirror.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared–looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood–red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket – and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket – he somehow saw it too. Incredibly, _he'd gotten the Stone_.

"How did you survive?" the human voice asked and in a blur Harry found himself standing further from Quirrell than a moment before.

"Let me speak to him… face–to–face…" came the voice from Quirrell's turban.

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough… for this…"

Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? Wait – he knew what was going on. He had to focus.

The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it as he turned on the spot to reveal the most terrible face Harry had ever seen where there should have been the back of the man's head. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter…" it whispered. "See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor… I have form only when I can share another's body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds… Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks–"

There was an urge to see a snow white form on the dark forest floor. Harry quickly discarded it; it wasn't important.

"–You saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now… why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

With a blur Harry sprang toward the flame door, Voldemort screaming "SEIZE HIM!" The next second he felt Quirrell's hand close on his wrist. There was no pain as the Harry he saw reacted as if his head were about to split in two; he yelled and struggled with all his might, but he knew the battle was already won. Quirrell let go of him, hunching in pain as his fingers blistered before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking the Harry he saw clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands around his neck – before Quirrell howled in agony.

The Stone had tumbled out of his pocket. Harry hadn't noticed that before, it didn't seem Quirrell had either.

"Master, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!" the man whimpered.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face–

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and Harry remembered: Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain – why was that?

In the hospital wing, a kind Dumbledore had the answer.

"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin."

Harry jumped to his feet, grabbed Quirrell's arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw him off – the memory started to become hazy – he couldn't see – he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" and other voices crying, "Harry! Harry!" before it all ended.

"Where's the Stone?" the harsh goblin from earlier demanded.

"–the effort involved nearly killed you," Dumbledore said to the younger Harry beside him. "For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" said Harry blankly. "But your friend – Nicholas Flamel–"

"He lived in this tower in the Hebrides, of all places," Molly said, sitting at her dinner table, "with goblin guards of all things."

"I said it was like going to the North Pole to see a very odd Father Christmas," Mr. Weasley added.

"I called him Saint Nick, because that was his name," Molly joked.

Focus.

"Oh, you know about Nicholas?" Dumbledore asked, sounding quite delighted. "You _did_ do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicholas and I have had a little chat," he said as if to a child half Harry's age, "and agreed it's all for the best."

"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?" the younger Harry asked.

"They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die."

The movie stopped again and Harry found himself strapped to an odd chair with a head full of cobwebs and a mouth full of cotton. After a moment the bindings were loosened and his funny hat removed, leaving him free to stand – just not able to without the room spinning.

"I have the question," an oddly accented goblin asked from above. "This girl at the end, who-who is this being?"

Harry clutched the chair for support and quickly found a gnarled hand on his shoulder.

"Don't–buy–me?" he said curiously before shaking the cobwebs out.

"That was Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," Lichfield explained for him, "Harry is renting a room from them."

"It is the Weasley you said?" the mustachioed goblin asked excitedly. "Then how did she know the Flamel?"

Lichfield looked at him curiously; Harry could tell he was curious too.

.o0O0o.

Percy hit the ground hard; floo travel certainly wasn't for someone in that much in a rush.

"Mother?" he cried, picking himself off the kitchen floor before catching sight of her already close at hand.

"Where have you been? The rest of us have been back for hours. Did your father find you?" she asked, momentarily pausing in her dinner preparations.

"No, I'd only just heard," he said anxiously, "How're–"

"Not to worry, dear," his mother reassured him. "I just got a call from your father; everyone's fine. They're just staying until Harry's back with them. Though I must admit they had me worried for a while. I still don't know what all the fuss was about," she said as she returned to her work. "And Merlin knows where they got the idea to charge people to use their floo. They'll be doing the same for owls next. No common decency at all. You set the table and tell me how your day with Penelope went," she instructed him.

"Oh – um – it–it went fine," Percy said uncomfortably as he opened the drawer for the cutlery. "We're seeing each other tomorrow at the Hopef–" he stopped suddenly as all the silverware vanished, only to reappear on the table. "Um, mother?"

"Merlin!" she cried as the dinner pans flew out of her hands and started cooking themselves.

There was a slight _pop!_ behind them and they whirled back around to the table, where a little house–elf wearing a clean white – if somewhat frazzled at the edges – pillowcase had just finished setting the table.

"Hello," the creature with small bags under his large eyes said. "You must be Harry Potter's family!" it beamed.

.o0O0o.

The polite smile on Barchoke's face lasted only as long as it took for the door at the far end of the Pit to close, then he rounded on Lognot and Marsh.

"There can be no doubt anymore that _both_ of your departments were involved," he snapped. "Vault seven – one – three is a Hogwarts vault, not one registered to Confidential. How did the Stone get in there without your collusion?"

Rather than hunted, Barnabas Marsh stood resolved.

"I assure you, the Hogwarts Accounting Department had no knowledge of this," he reiterated. "With any cart operator able to open those doors, who's to say who put that Stone in there? Rest assured that I'll be launching a full investigation on the matter."

"Be-being born with the Stone," Alkrat stammered excitedly to anyone who happened to be close by, "does-does this make him magical?"

"This is only one of several irregularities in your department–," Barchoke said stubbornly.

"Of course he's magical, he's a wizard," the pudgy Slaggran wheezed to Alkrat.

"And I will investigate it," Marsh shot back. "You keep your nose out of it unless you want more complaints against you than you know what to do with."

"No-no-no, I mean magical magical," the foreign goblin said as giddy as a child that's earned its first knut.

"My issues with your department go far beyond the Stone," Barchoke pressed. "Gringotts will be demanding full repayment once those transfers are rendered fraudulent, you can be sure of that."

"The entirety of Confidential should be put to the question," Gutripper said, looking at Lognot with a gleam in his eye. "That will get to the bottom of this breach."

"That's yet another item on the list of things I intend to get to the bottom of, I assure you," Marsh said with a dismissive wave to Barchoke.

"There's still no evidence that there actually was a breach," Lognot interjected, looking tense. "It still could've been a fake."

"Do you think the I.C.W. or the Ministry will care?" Barchoke said, breaking into the conversation since he was getting nowhere with Marsh. "We can't keep this quiet. Every child at Hogwarts knows about this, the entire world's been after that Stonemaker for centuries, and the Ministry's hated us for going behind their backs," he said, repeatedly poking Lognot in the chest with his finger.

"It was a rather scandalous event at the time," the ever diplomatic Bankor added with his soothing tone, "and though the People rejected and deposed that king afterwards we've nonetheless been bound to honor it."

Barchoke thought "scandalous" was an understatement since it was the reason they hadn't had a king since and had been repeatedly trounced upon by the Ministry.

"It was a bad deal from the start and it never should've been made," Barchoke cut in decisively. "We should take the opportunity to cut our losses and hand Flamel over to them. Let them deal with the Stone while we clear the rubble from this cave–in and get back to business as soon as possible."

The other Overseers seemed to agree with this since they all started talking at once.

"You realize that they'll make us check every galleon, every scrap of gold we have?" Slaggran wheezed.

"The coin makers will be working overtime for years to check for the signature impurities," Fillast said. "Can't we speed up the process?"

"Oh! We must recall everything from the overseas as well," Alkrat moaned. "What–what–what will I pay my people with if you take away the galleon?"

"Don't you pay them in local currencies?" Slaggran said in a confused wheeze.

"No–no–no! I pay them in galleon," Alkrat explained. "Salary calculated for the area they're in – then they must convert when we pay them and we make the money for converting currency."

There was a pause as everyone halted to look at the foreigner.

"That's a really good idea," Barchoke mused, breaking the stillness as the clump of Overseers went back to talking over each other.

"We should ask the Ministry to keep the value of the galleon in place for the time being."

"We should _demand_ they keep it in place," Barchoke countered Bankor's timidity; this was not a time for tepidness. "All contracts too. This can't be allowed to devolve into a panicked run on the bank."

"The testing, who–who will we get to do this?"

"A joint strike team of Enforcers and Curse-Breakers could overwhelm the island," Gutripper said. "Lognot's people won't stand a chance."

"I must protest–!" Lognot protested.

"I would suggest we include an I.C.W. task force instead of Curse-Breakers," Barchoke said with polite deference to Gutripper's suggestion. "They'll have to be involved anyway and it would lend legitimacy to our claim of a transparent and joint investigation – because you'll know they'll demand full access to everything unless we seem to be compliant already."

"The Curse–Breakers know more about on–the–fly arithmantic spell–dissection than anyone else we have," Marsh said, brainstorming out loud. "Couldn't they use that to make something to help with testing?"

"We should lock down all the vaults until this whole issue is resolved," Fillast said tersely. "It would be a good opportunity to check them for contraband as well."

"Oh! I like it! They should be reassigned, with the competing teams to see who's the better!" Alkrat smiled.

"You're right; imagine the fees we'd rake in from a surprise inspection."

"Yes, that is the proper thing to do," Little Minister Bankor said, agreeing with something or other. "There's a session of the Wizengamot in two days, we'll need to make a statement as soon as possible."

"I just had a sizable audit done," Barchoke said, "Auditor Axegrind proved quite capable." From the corner of his eye he saw Gutripper glance at him. "I suggest we put him in charge of testing."

"We'll hold Lognot here in the meantime," Gutripper sneered angrily, "They'll want to interrogate him before we kill him."

"No! NO!" Lognot screamed as he threw himself over the banister surrounding the Pit. Tumbling over himself in his haste, the goblin bolted for the door Harry and Lichfield just left from several moments before.

Tensions running high, Barchoke felt every inch like the grand goblins of old. Whipping out his dagger he flung it at the retreating goblin, aiming to wound and capture. He missed by a mile as it clanged down not even half way to the target and skidded across the floor.

Gutripper gave him a look that said that he was dumber than a bag of rocks for even trying. He took the Concealer from Barchoke's other hand and shattered it on the floor.

"GUARDS!" the scarred security goblin bellowed as the Pit seemed to amplify his roar; the noise of the crowd when it had been in operation must've been deafening.

The door Lognot was charging towards banged open and two scarlet and gold guards burst through, weapons drawn. Lognot shuttered to a halt in front of them as a blade jut through his back. With a croaking, choking sound Lognot slowly slumped to the floor, sliding off the surprised guard's blade to lie in a pool of dark green blood. The guards looked up at them with wide eyes to see if they were to be punished for killing someone they may have wanted detained.

Barchoke stood stunned. Every goblin knew that death was always around the next corner, banking was a dangerous business full of envious competitors, but Barchoke had never seen anyone die before. Vaguely he knew that Gropegold wouldn't be in his cell anymore since he had given up all the information he had, but he had been far enough away from the event that he could pretend that he didn't know what had really happened.

Now he couldn't. He had killed two people. Two bad people, or at least incompetent, but they were still people. He ran a hand across his shaved head. His Oath of Vengeance had always been more of a theoretical thing, but he had sworn to take vengeance upon yet another person, a human, a wizard, Dumbledore. That this could be achieved through prolonged pain and not death seemed to console him slightly; and confuse him a bit.

If truth be told Barchoke felt nothing as he looked down at the bleeding body. How could he be okay with death when it happened to someone he didn't really know, but be so terrified of it himself? Was it being removed from the act that made it palatable to him, or would the actual act be the same? He wondered how this squared with his Oath of Vengeance and couldn't help but be curious as to how he'd face his own death. Would he face it stoically, be petrified by fear, would he run – or would he fight?

"Well, that's done," Gutripper said, breaking the silence. "Hide the body, and keep it a secret from Confidential," he snapped to the guards.

_'That shouldn't be hard_,' Barchoke thought. _'The cave–blind fools didn't even know what was going on in their own department_.'

Then it hit him, neither had he when this whole thing got started. Did Marsh really not know what was going on? How could they hold Overseers accountable for things, punishable by death, when everything was always so hands-off unless there was a problem? For his own health, things would have to change.

"I should be the one to make the announcement to the Wizengamot," Marsh said as the guards started to drag Lognot's body away, leaving a deep green smear behind them.

"You overstep yourself," Bankor interrupted, for once seeming slightly ruffled. "It's my department that deals with the Ministry."

"With their policies and finances – not with the Wizengamot itself," Marsh pressed. "You may have noticed that they and I have a lot in common."

Barchoke got his head back in the game. "I would think that you'd be too busy with your investigation," he said, giving the human the benefit of the doubt.

"Don't you have a kid's diaper to change?" the human sneered.

Barchoke went to grab his dagger to teach the human not to spit at kindness, only to find nothing there. With a spike of fear he realized that it was still on the floor of the Pit.

Marsh drew his wand.

Barchoke sprang instinctively back to put more distance between them. Daggers were drawn by Gutripper and Fillast. Alkrat jumped back in surprise, his hands up to ward off an attack. Slaggran fell on his ass. Bankor darted looks between them, wondering what to say to salvage the situation, and Braglast had disappeared entirely.

In the tense moment that followed, the human seemed to realize the grave mistake he had made. He had been given a dagger for a reason: they all had them, whether they had brought them or not, but no one threatened a goblin with a wand, not this deep in the bowels of Gringotts.

Marsh opened his grip on the wand so that only two fingers were touching it, and slowly lowered it to the floor, keeping his other hand clearly visible. Braglast suddenly appeared from behind the human and kicked the wand aside before sheathing his own blade; the wand was the only one to make a sound as it clattered off somewhere.

With a gulp, Slaggran's wheezed breathing cut through the silence.

"They wouldn't know you either," he said from the floor as if nothing had happened. The fat goblin's stomach growled and he chose not to stand.

"Putting out a human would make us look weak," Fillast said. "We need someone they think would have their interests first. But not someone they know well enough to complain about."

"That is not me," Alkrat said. "Who–who are you suggesting?"

"Can we get food brought in?" Slaggran wheezed.

"Barchoke should do it," Fillast said.

"Me?" he asked, honestly surprised.

"You are the one who brought this to us. You say we should turn him over. This is your doing, so you do it."

"He is in charge of Hereditary Accounts," Bankor agreed, sizing him up. "The name of that alone will have them trust him."

"And this puts the domestic goblin face on it, yes?" Alkrat said. "Oh, yes-yes, that works. So what is he to say?"

.o0O0o.

The smile that bloomed on Hermione's face as they made their way over did loopy things to Harry's stomach that had nothing to do with all the strange events of that day. He was still getting used to the reality that Hermione liked him.

"Hey Harry, say something!" Ron said when they got close.

"Why?" he asked, causing the other boy to look disappointed.

"Mr. Snuffle–wampum is just trying to alleviate boredom," Mr. Granger said gesturing to Ron. "We've been waiting a while."

"You didn't have to do that," Harry said, embarrassedly running a hand through his hair to flatten it down.

"That's what I said, but got out-voted," the frizzy-haired dentist said with a shrug, bugging his eyes out a little. "Damn democracy; what we need is an autocratic authoritarian ruler that everyone falls in line with," he said with mock seriousness, drawing a long-suffering look from his daughter that he didn't think the man saw.

"So you want to be a goblin?" Lichfield asked. "I know a guy; we can try to make that happen."

Hermione's dad seemed to change his mind.

"Oh, no," he said holding up his hands to ward Lichfield off. "You leave Mr. Grumpypants right where he is."

Lichfield laughed.

"Well," Mr. Weasley said, standing up from his chair. "Now that we can say that you're still alive, I think it's safe to go home to Molly. You remember how to use the floo to get back to the Burrow, right?"

"Er – yeah," he answered.

Harry tried to ignore the mounting uncomfortable embarrassment as Mr. Weasley shooed Ron away and out of the bank, overriding his protests with a "You'll understand later."

He walked beside Hermione as the larger group made their slower way out the bank; Mr. Granger took his time tying his shoes and making sure the books were all still in the bag and Lichfield seemed content to wait. The goblins didn't help matters either by only opening one door at a time to let them though.

As they hit a completely deserted Diagon Alley, Harry was surprised to find that it was so late; all the shops were closed and it was getting close to dusk. Ron and his dad were already at the far side of the alley about to enter the Leaky Cauldron.

"Well," Lichfield said gruffly, holding onto the bank's door to keep them from closing it. "I just got a whole new mountain of work to get to. I'll see you tomorrow," he told Harry before going back inside.

As the bank's door closed with a heavy thud and locked, Harry stood outside with the Grangers, feeling set up. Hermione's dad didn't make any pretense about it.

"Well, this is where I make a likely excuse and leave you two alone. Bye!" he said with a wave and walked jauntily off down the street towards the Leaky Cauldron.

And just like that the awkwardness was back between them. The adults may have left them alone so they could say goodbye in private but they also put a giant spotlight on them. Hermione fidgeted and shooed a beetle away from her hair as they started down the street.

She spent some time looking at the buildings on her side of the street, and he spent it concentrating on the cobblestones right in front of him, but neither of them were walking quickly or with any sense of purpose. In anything, they were dawdling. Even with it horribly uncomfortable, Harry didn't want it to end. When he chanced a glance over to her, Hermione seemed concerned about something.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Um – Yes, I think so," she said, still looking worried about something.

"Is it about that thing with your dad?"

"No," she said uncomfortably.

"Is it about Dobby?" he asked, hoping she'd say no again. He couldn't go back to the Malfoys, even if they could stop the transfer somehow. No one deserved to be treated like that and from what Lichfield had said freedom would see him miserable or dead, or both.

"Not exactly," Hermione said after a moment. "It's just–," she seemed to struggle for words, "–the new clothes, new shoes, the lawyer, dealing with the goblins–"

"–I thought you liked them," he said.

"Individually, yes, they're all very nice – except for the goblins," she said quickly. "It's just – all together, sometimes I don't know if I'm here with Harry or Harold, and with all this happening with the wizarding world it feels like you're leaving the non-magical world behind. The Dursleys may have treated you like rubbish, but I liked the muggle in you."

Harry stopped walking and felt his stomach plummet. He liked the muggle in her too, how would he feel if this had happened to her instead? Suddenly she'd have new people occupying her time, she'd have the best… books, probably, because he doubted she'd ever get back on a broom or that dresses were her thing, but it just might look like she'd become the hoity-toity princess of everything.

_'It'd feel like she was leaving me behind, that she didn't need me anymore_,' he thought. But how was he supposed explain all this? He turned to glance at Gringotts, which stood alone and uninviting, looming large over the alley.

"All of that that happened back there today," he gestured to the bank, "that's been my normal for the last two weeks, and everyone wants me to grow up. Barchoke wants me to grow up so I can handle the account, Lichfield wants me to grow up so it'll help him with the case, even I want me to grow up so I can spend more time with you doing all the serious stuff you like," he said anxiously.

"Sometimes, it's just too much," he explained, really only thinking about it now as the words came flying out of his mouth. "I try to spend time with Ron and the others, but even that doesn't feel right – it's like I've forgotten how to relax. I've been so petrified that I'd be sent back to the Dursleys that–"

All words stopped as Hermione hugged him tightly. After the shock wore off Harry put his arms around her too; she seemed just as tense as he was. Now that he knew what to do with his hands, Harry thought this might be something he could get used to. It actually seemed to help.

"These clothes aren't new, by the way," he confessed as he felt the tension in his shoulders unknit a bit. Still standing as they were, Harry couldn't see her face to see what she thought, so he just kept talking. "I need new ones but I keep putting it off. All my old clothes were ruined so I've gotten used to dressing like this."

"You do wear something similar at Hogwarts anyway," she said to his shoulder.

"Right," he said, glad she couldn't see the chagrined look on his face. "And as for me being a Harold–," Harry started uncertainly.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't thought like a Harold in days, not since Dumbledore had tried to take him back to the Dursleys. Why had he been a Harold then and not a Harold now? The depressive answer came easily.

_'Because ikkle Harry needed an adult to look after him_,' he thought to himself. _'Big bad Dumbledore was too scary to stand up to on his own so he needed someone else to swoop in and do it for him._'

He had stood up to him though. It hadn't been easy, but Lichfield hadn't come swooping in to stop things like Harry had hoped he would, so he had to do it on his own. He guessed part of him thought that it'd be easier to face the man that he had started to see as a kindly old grandfather if it wasn't really him having to be the one to say those things.

It was mean old Harold who said those hurtful things, not Harry. Harry was still good, and pure, and thoughtful and kind and – it was a load of bollocks. He had stood up to Dumbledore, and would again if he had to. Strange to think that it was easier to go against Voldemort than it had been to do the same to Dumbledore, but he guessed that's why he had given those house points to Neville last year.

"Harold is just a name on a piece of paper," he said. "It doesn't mean anything. I'm still me, just like you'd still be you if your middle name really was Jørgensen."

She chuckled quietly at that, finding more humor in it a second time around. Hermione stepped away a bit and looked up at him; she seemed more at ease than she had before.

"You need some time to relax," she said as they started walking again.

Harry shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets to give himself something to do. Hermione looped her arm through his and walked close to him. He thought it was probably best to pretend this was perfectly normal and happened all the time. It felt nice, but it wasn't exactly relaxing in the way she probably meant.

"Yeah," he said, nervously flattening his hair with his other hand, "but good luck with that. I still have that thing with the Hopefuls tomorrow and I've completely forgotten what you wanted to ask McGonagall about. I've actually been looking forward to going back to Hogwarts, just to be away from all – _that_," Harry waved backwards at Gringotts, half-hoping it would shoo the building away.

"If-if I can get my dad to agree to stay the night," Hermione said tentatively, not quite looking at him. "I still have to finish my shopping and all," she added quickly, picking at an imaginary spot on the arm of his robe. "Do-do you think you'd be interested in doing your shopping with me, and we can go to the Hopefuls thing together?"

Harry smiled as his heart leapt upwards.

"Yeah, that'd be great," he said. Going about with Hermione had been fun, and had certainly been the highlight of the day; Harry could definitely see doing that bit again. "You think you could get him to stay?"

"It'd be better than spending another six hours in the car to just make another trip or try to cram in some last-minute shopping before hopping on the train."

Even dawdling didn't make things last when you really wanted them to for it was then that they found themselves at the brick wall that led to the Leaky Cauldron and they separated again. The barman must have shut it once Mr. Granger had come through. Harry hesitated on taking out his wand to open it, just in case her dad was waiting on the other side, ready to jump out and surprise them. Hermione seemed to share his concern.

"So what do you think," Hermione asked, suddenly nervous. "You could come by around eight and we can go from there?"

Suddenly everything seemed very real again, and he understood why she was nervous.

"Um – yeah," he said, suddenly unsure how he was supposed to stand. "Eight-eight sounds fine."

"Good," she said and then proceeded to stand there with him awkwardly. Was he supposed to do something now?

Hermione's forehead crinkled as she stared at his chest.

"Did your tie just change color?" she asked.

Harry looked down in time to see his outer robe drop open. Before he could open his mouth to speak his tie flew up and hit him in the face, untying itself before it disappeared. His Gryffindor crest popped back onto his robe while his left sleeve and right pants leg twitched and shortened back to where they were supposed to be. After a moment, the other two joined them in their humiliating retreat.

_'Well, so much for making a good impression_,' he thought. _'At least her dad didn't see that or he'd be–_'

Hermione cracked up, laughing even harder than she had back at the pet shop, and Harry knew from living with Fred and George for a while that he just had to stand there and take it. It wasn't so bad with her though since he liked to hear her laugh; though he thought it'd be funnier if it had happened to somebody else. By the time her laughter started dying down and she wiped a tear from her eye, Harry had thought of something to say.

"Well, I did say they weren't new," he said with a shrug, causing her to have a bout of giggles again.

"There's the Harry I remember, just beneath the surface. I'll see you tomorrow, Harry," she smiled, then, after a moment's hesitation, darted forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

As Hermione opened the wall and ran inside, all Harry could do was stare dumbly after her, moving a hand to that spot on his cheek. He saw her have a brief word with the barman and then bolt upstairs. That's when he realized, they already had a room.

_'Huh_,' Harry thought. _'Apparently people plan these things after all_.'

.o0O0o.

He found it much easier to evade the man's probing questions about what happened after he left than it usually was. Perhaps Lester didn't really want to know. Then again, without his trusty Concealer in his hand Barchoke felt much less forthcoming. Lester was less than sympathetic about his loss.

"Just be glad he smashed the orb and not your skull," he said in a low voice. "He's not someone to poke. I'm surprised everyone got out of that room alive to be honest."

Barchoke fiddled with the inside pocket of his suit so as to avoid having to say anything; he would have to get it mended, his dagger kept threatening to slip out. There might've been easier ways to turn off the Concealer than breaking it but Gutripper wasn't known for his subtlety. He supposed he shouldn't really complain, it wasn't something to shave your head over - though he technically couldn't do that without removing his own scalp. Besides, everyone had more to think about than him at the moment, they should be fine.

"Abnormalities like that pop up from time to time," Barchoke said with a wave, getting back to business as they walked by the Halfwit's statue. "Who knows why it happens. Forget about it, it's not relevant to the case, but Bumblebee Press most certainly is and I _really_ want to get in Marsh's face and tear him a new–"

"Trace amounts of magic have shown up before, sure, even whole runic structures somehow, but the same unknown abnormality popping up with both Dumbledore and the boy?" Lester pressed in a whisper. "You heard what the man said; there's something strange about that boy's blood and it sounds like the old man knows what it is. I don't like him knowing something I don't; it smells wrong."

"Speaking of blood," Barchoke said, changing the subject that wasn't going to go anywhere as they turned down the Hereditary hallway. "Why didn't you mention the Will? Because of Sirius Black?"

"It's bound to be a sore subject for him," Lester said. "You didn't go anywhere near it either. I trust Moody, but I'd prefer to have it in my hand just to be sure; I should be getting it tomorrow, and with the Ida Beeman angle I've got someone else I'd like to pin down for corroboration – if I can find her."

Running steps from behind them made them stop short and turn as Overseer Alkrat skid around the corner with a large file in his hands.

"Ah! Barchoke," the odd goblin cried warmly.

That made him nervous. Why was he being so friendly? He'd never even seen him in this hallway before.

"I was just to be leaving when heard you wanted," he said, handing over the file with a smile. "But who know when you get if I go - so I deliver. You know," the strange foreign goblin said conspiratorially, "if someone be wanting the keeping of files in one place for the security and things - I would not be fighting on this."

Alkrat held his hands up in front of him with an expression that said he couldn't care less. "I go now," he said, turning to walk away. At the end of the hallway he turned back. "We should be talking restructure of the overseas, it's very old. But-but-but later. I go Cairo."

When the oddball finally left, he shared a baffled look with Lester.

"That's the strangest goblin I've ever met," Barchoke said.

"That's saying something, coming from you. What'd he even give–," Lester cut off when he saw the file name. "That's Bumblebee Press."

"I knew it – they're spying on me," the Overseer mumbled, looking around everywhere before backing towards his office door. "You called me paranoid."

"Just because they're spying on you doesn't mean they're out to get you," Lester tried to say reassuringly.

"What else could it possibly mean?" he asked, fumbling with the door handle.

With a _thunk!_ a dagger embedded in the door just inches from his hand. As Lester flattened against the wall Barchoke saw Overseer Gutripper coming towards him and tried not to wet himself.

.o0O0o.

Never be seen doing anything. His father had said that long ago in relation to the underhanded dealings he had been so fond of, but while he had applied that mantra only towards his criminal enterprises, Lucius applied it to everything. Having been excluded from wielding actual political power due to an ancestor's blunder generations ago, the Malfoys had needed to find new ways to exert influence.

Nothing exuded wealth and influence as ostentatiously as doing nothing at all. Doing nothing also infuriated the lesser people. So used to scurrying about in their menial tasks in the hopes of accomplishing something, they simply couldn't understand how he had thwarted them so easily when he hadn't seemed to lift a finger. Everyone knew it was him of course, that was rather the point. But they couldn't prove anything, and thus his influence grew.

The seeming exception to this was his spot on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, that mostly hereditary and secretive group of select families charged with overseeing the well-being of their illustrious school. But since no one really knew what they did, and few spared them any thought, that didn't particularly count for much in most people's eyes.

On the other rare instances he was seen to act it was always innocuous, making it seem like he was still doing nothing. A false smile in the halls of the Ministry to remind everyone that he knew what they were doing and was always watching, bland platitudes and idle comments outside of the Wizengamot chamber to remind them what to think, and 'small gifts for their children' in the form of crushed velvet bags full of gold were his preferred means of orchestrating the world's affairs.

It was a much more civilized way of doing things than his father had done, though arranging harsh accidents for wayward children was still sometimes necessary, even when they didn't know what their fathers had done that was so wrong. Even then, Lucius took pains to make sure things were never connected to him except in the target's own mind.

That was why days like today never sat well with him, but he had had no choice; Dumbledore had forced his hand, he had had to act. That the doddering old fool had no children or grandchildren due to his perverse and unnatural affections, and the fact that everyone that could be considered reasonably close to the man was safely snug in that grand castle, made things difficult. That was when a golden opportunity presented itself.

The infinitely mundane Arthur Weasley had started cringing and begging his way through the Ministry like the dirty little weasel he was. The fact that he thought anyone would support such a misguided effort as his Muggle Protection Act when nearly everyone of any standing had a small hoard of cursed family heirlooms hidden away in secret rooms or in their vaults at Gringotts was laughable. He was close to the Headmaster's affections for some reason though, and that made him priceless, as far as targets went.

Lucius had made his thoughts on the matter clear in a token resistance but in the end had let the initiative come to a vote. Dumbledore could have his temporary victory; he would win the cultural war. The Ministry barging in and searching homes would only serve to rally people against such new, invasive, and ultimately untrustworthy ideas. In time, the entire thing would be scrapped and the thought that we shouldn't be protecting muggles from ourselves but protecting ourselves from them would embed itself in people's minds.

Arranging the world as he wished it to be was a delicate thing full of subtle maneuvers and schemes that took time to come to fruition. It was a generational game and Dumbledore had proved too much of a hindrance, had defied him too long, and was too prevalent for him to ignore. He had to be swept aside so that a better man could reign supreme. Unfortunately, that left him with only one option to choose: the diary that the self-styled Dark Lord had entrusted him with.

He had taken immense satisfaction in the fact that the balding ginger weasel's insipid daughter would be Dumbledore's downfall, and would take her own father down with him. Since the pathetic man had dared to strike him, and in public, perhaps he'd have her sent to Azkaban when everything was done. Penniless, jobless, joyless, and utterly without prospects or determinable skill they'd be a constant reminder to others of what happened to those who dared to go against his wishes, perhaps an even more powerful reminder than Dumbledore's fall would be.

What Marsh said now was unsettling. The entire stability of the world he was shaping, of the schemes he had, the ultimate culmination of his family's rise and return to their rightful place of power had all been undermined. All their great gains were at risk as they found themselves on the edge a precipice with no broom to cling to.

"You were quite right to bring this to me, Marsh," Lucius said, schooling his features into a semblance of calm detachment bordering on slightly mocking indulgence as he luxuriated in his Wiltshire manor's drawing room.

Of course he had known everything that the misnamed Overseer had said, or so he wanted the man to believe. Suspicions were as good as facts when you played the game as well as he did, but he had never thought Dumbledore would blunder so badly. It could ruin everything. He had always thought the man a poor, but insistent player but now… now he was convinced that the old fool had been playing a different game entirely.

How could that power-hungry madman that styled himself a Dark Lord still be alive?

His first instinct was to cower, to hunker down and protect himself from the maniac who would so joyously take his life in an instant, and offer up those gains in hopes of buying his freedom. Lucius wished he had never become involved with the man; that had been his fanatical wife's doing, her and her sister. Not being in line to inherit their family's wealth themselves, they had been drawn in with visions of a courtly ruling class, pure of blood and noble and Slytherin, guiding the world into the golden age the Founders had envisioned; that was not what they received. All that Dark Lord gave was pain and demanded everything of you in return.

"I trust you will do everything in your power to guide things on their proper course and keep others out of our affairs," he drawled, mind occupied on other things as he said what was expected of him.

He would have to change his plans, especially in regards to Draco's long-term prospects. Should the Dark Lord indeed find some way to return, it wouldn't do to have that particular gem waiting for him. He had to consider the family's long-term success; the individual was irrelevant, no matter the Black Family's thoughts on the subject; there was no one left to enforce any contracts on their side anyway.

"The other Governors and I will remember your good stewardship when these issues are behind us," he said to his pawn, knowing the unspoken promise of gold would buy his compliance, it always did.

"Of course, sir," the man gave a winning smile that said all was already well in hand in the way that only the particularly good boot-licking servants – the ones that stayed bought once you paid for them – seemed to have.

With a genuine smile, Lucius was reminded of the pleasures he had gained that day. Selling the elf after wringing what little life there was out of him was an opportunity too convenient to miss. Let someone else watch the pathetic creature die pining after his family; his secrets were safe. Dead elves betrayed no one, even by accident.

An unexpected pleasure had come when he had returned home. Seeing his haughty, pampered wife attempt to get on without someone waiting on her hand and foot was an immeasurable joy. She'd been accustomed to the luxuries that came with being a Malfoy for so long that the woman actually seemed to believe she was entitled to them.

He debated extending the treatment to Draco; there was far too much Black in him for his liking, especially for the role he'd been born to play. With that role now in doubt he had to be sure his heir was capable of continuing the same delicate dance until the time was more auspicious for them.

When Marsh failed to make his departure as was expected of him, Lucius graced him with an artfully arched eyebrow.

"Was there something else?" he asked, taking a sip of the elf-made wine some new vintner had sent as a gift, hopeful for an investment. Whoever this Cadogan was made a nice wine for a first time out; Lucius though tried never to drink anything younger than he was. He would have to pass. Perhaps he'd send the rest to Severus as a Christmas gift.

"There is, sir," Marsh said, shifting slightly on the expensive rug. "It's something I hesitate to bring you since the subject is a close one, but it does have rather large implications for us all – should _other_ issues not come to the fore – so I'd be negligent if I didn't bring it up."

"Go on," Lucius said intrigued.

"Well, there was another person that loomed large in the boy's memories… It was your son."

.o0O0o.

Barchoke looked down at the file on his desk, not even seeing it. This was bad. It was really bad. It was so bad it was virtually catastrophic. He didn't know how he could recover from this. He got up to pace up and down his office, removing his suit jacket and tossing it over a chair before loosening his tie.

Alkrat had been the first, but he hadn't been the last. Gutripper talked to him about strike teams, interrogation squads, and future security concerns. Bankor came by with a rough outline of the speech they wanted him to give - provided the Wizengamot would allow a goblin to speak; he doubted it, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Fillast then presented him with a proposal for a flip-free fliplift and discussed ideas for a post-Stone Gringotts. Afterwards, Slaggran had come by with some cream-filled pastries. How he had managed to get those, Barchoke had no idea, but he suspected it had something to do with all the muggle currency the bank was required to take in and had nothing it could do with it.

Braglast was by far the scariest, and that was including Gutripper throwing a dagger at him to get his attention. On the spur of the moment Barchoke dashed to the cabinet and flung the doors wide - nothing seemed out of place. He tapped all the panels though, just to be sure. They sounded solid, but they couldn't be. He looked up at the office ceiling, hoping to see some hairline split that would give him some kind of clue.

How in Gott's name did the little cat-skinner fall from the ceiling onto the desk, hand him his favorite power tie that he'd lost two years earlier, and then disappear by climbing into his cabinet - and all without making a sound? And what was it that he actually did around here anyway?

After that, Barchoke half expected Lognot to stop by - until he remembered that he was dead. The only ones that hadn't come by was Largrot and Marsh. Marsh was a human and therefore didn't matter, and Largrot... He tried to remember back to when the last time he'd seen Largrot. Had he even been in the Pit with them? Surely no one would've killed him after the preliminary meeting, there'd been no reason to. Had he fallen asleep - or had he gone into hiding?

Barchoke yanked off his tie and flailed the nearest chair with it to vent his frustration. How could his fortunes have turned so quickly? What had he done to draw their attention to him? What made them think he had all the ideas? He used to have a nice cushie job where he didn't have to do anything five days out of the week, got paid, and had weekends off - now he was working all the time and everyone was deferring to him. It was madness.

The higher you climb, the further and faster you fall. All it would take now would be one thing, one big accomplishment they could point to as evidence that he should be the one to lead and before he'd know it he'd be bumped upstairs to be Grand Overseer. What a disaster. Who would ever want that job? It meant you were responsible for everything that happened, and he had never heard of a Grand Overseer retiring of old age - there had always been someone around to knock him off when he got old so they could take his place at the top of the building.

He supposed it was too late to get the boy to change his mind about the case, even if he could somehow convince Lester - which he'd never be able to do in a million years. He'd have to watch his step from here on out and hope the case only proved middlingly successful on the bank's behalf because unless someone else distinguished themselves he looked to be the default choice. The thought made him as antsy as an under-worked house-elf. He needed something to take his mind off his possible sudden end-of-life situation.

There was a quick knock on the door and Secretary Trixie entered, closing the door behind her.

"There's a lot of talk going around about you," she said with a cheeky half grin and a glint in her eye, her voice cracking in that enticing way she had.

_'That's it_,' he decided. _'If I'm going to be damned with a promotion then it's high time I start doing what I want_.'

With a flick of his wrist he sent his tie whipping out and wrapping around her arm. There was only an instant of shock before her grin became feral.

"C'mere!" he cried, pulling her through the air towards him as night fell.

.o0O0o.

The summer nights of Cairo were always warm, and usually windy. The people lucky enough to be stationed here all loved the city, the exotic foods and smells, and the kind of history that'd reach up out of the sand after five thousand years just as powerful as the day it'd last been seen. Bill had expected to spend the next several years here before transferring to India, China, or the Andes. What he hadn't expected was an Urgent All-Recall Notice pelting him in the face while he ate, but surprises hadn't stopped there.

Every Curse-Breaker they had was being ordered to pack their things and return to London; why was unknown. It was just his luck that when he had finally gotten his things out of the Burrow he had to find a place to stay in England again for who knows how long. To make matters worse, the tellers were in a tizzy about something, refusing to exchange the dinar into galleons, saying they would have to take it up with London.

He'd just been about to grab an early portkey back to England before all the rooms at the Leaky Cauldron and the Three Broomsticks were snapped up when he'd been told that Overseer Alkrat had wanted to see him. He had seen him at a few digs, just as excited as everyone else at the thought of treasure, but Bill hadn't thought that Alkrat even knew his name.

Being probed, prodded, and scanned while the giddy little Overseer cackled in the background certainly wasn't the most dignified of meetings though. He had tried for patient silence thinking it was some sort of new security check but it had gone on for more than half an hour and they gave no sign of letting up anytime soon.

"Is this going to take long?" Bill asked as one of the small cadre of goblins started measuring the fingers of his right hand while another did his left foot. "I've got somewhere to be tomorrow - on top of the Reassign."

"Yes-yes-yes, you're very interesting," Alkrat said with a wave. "Do not be forgetting the hair - I want to know why it is red."

Bill tried not to sigh. Whatever this was about had better be worth it.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Quite some time ago I clicked on a reviewer's name to check out their profile and I found something interesting. They pointed out that, contrary to popular belief, Lucius Malfoy had no position in the Wizengamot. It's surprising, I know, especially considering how he'd been built up as a behind-the-scenes manipulator who had the Minister in his pocket, and yet their evidence was sound. I forget what all they said but one point stood out: in OotP Harry had his trial before "the entire Wizengamot," and yet Lucius Malfoy wasn't there. He had been left outside to prowl the hallways and try to sway the result however he could and wasn't mentioned again. It's a different type of Lucius Malfoy than most people are used to, but it does make for an interesting character.

So, thanks AlaskanKing for pointing that out.

As always, thanks for reading.


	18. A Slightly Safer Shade of Gray

**AN:** Since this is a fic for people who are interested in odd theories, tiny details, realistic back stories, complex characters and odd theories about tiny details in the realistic back stories of complicated characters, the first half is dedicated to the three people who've brought the subject up: coolcat12345, Ziactrice, and Krysania.

.o0O0o.

With a _knock–knock!_ her father opened the door and gingerly stuck his head inside.

"Hey look! I got a new hat," he said with a smile, Imogen nesting in his frizzly coiffed hair.

Normally she would've shaken her head and called him a birdbrain or something but Hermione had other things on her mind.

"You wanna know why I put it on?" he asked after moment.

She just sat at the rickety desk that had come with the room he had rented for her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, coming in with a small cloth bundle in his hand. "You've been very quiet. Your shopping not go so well or was it the Spanish Inquisition that botched things up?" he asked, shooing the owl away to fly out the window as he sat on the bed.

"Would you ever eat a cat?" she asked, looking at him seriously.

"Why, do you plan to get one?" her bulging–eyed father asked in return. "I promise I won't eat any cat you happen to get," he said with his hand solemnly raised, "as long as it's hypoallergenic. Your mother's allergic to pet dander."

Hermione couldn't help but help but to make a face, she had forgotten about that. She chose a more serious topic instead.

"What about slavery?" she asked. "Do you think it's an inherently evil act?"

His eyebrows jumped to his hairline; that had done it. There was no way he could make a joke about that.

"Slavery as we know it was an absolutely abhorrent affair based on the systematic exploitation of other people as personal property," her father said seriously. "That's why we're well rid of it and there are those that work hard to make sure it isn't practiced, even in secret. But you've known this for years, so why do you ask about this today of all days?" he ended curiously.

"Do you think it's possible that anyone would ever actually _want_ to be a slave?" she asked instead of answering.

"Now you're stepping into a minefield," he said holding his hands up in front of him to ward off responsibility for the question. "I know you're only asking a hypothetical, but taken out of context some things that question implies could cause some really big problems."

"I'm not stupid, Dad," she said with a crinkled brow, fully aware of the sensitivity of the issue. "I just want to know how someone could be happier being a slave than being free."

"Well now," he said, looking rather relieved, "Happiness is a slightly safer shade of gray." His hair became a bit flyaway as he scratched his head to come up with one of his patented historical examples.

"You remember Martha, the secretary from work, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes," Hermione replied, curious at him picking something so recent for his example.

"Well, she has three kids and a mountain of debt, thanks to that deadbeat ex–husband of hers," her father said, gesturing with his hands at the enormity of the problem. "What I pay her keeps her bills paid, kids fed, and the creditors at bay – but it costs more than I want it to. That's why I'm going to slash her pay, fiddle with her schedule so she never gets close to overtime, take away all her benefits, and if she complains, I'll tell her that her and her kids can starve for all I care; I want my money," he finished earnestly.

"You'd never do that," she said.

"No, I wouldn't," he agreed with a smile. "But I could – if she had any of that that is – and people have, making the people who depend on them for their livelihoods miserable. For people near the bottom, they don't really have much choice, they have to do what they need to in order to survive, even if it's unpleasant, so many of them take jobs like that if they can find them. In the past it was worse, and in many places around the world it still is."

"So even though they're technically free to do as they please, they don't really have the option to since the misery their employer puts them through is less than what's waiting for them if they leave," Hermione said, summing up.

"Now," he said with a gleam in his eye, "imagine that we're a poor rural family living hundreds of years ago with no money to our name and only a small patch of ground to scratch a living off of. But there's a drought," he said with a dramatic gasp, "and everyone around us has lost their crops; our family is starving and odds are that you'll be dead before the year is out. But then a rich traveling merchant offers–"

"–Offers to buy me and give me a wonderful life," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "You're trying to say that it's the quality of life and the conditions of that freedom or servitude that's important."

"Only that in certain situations, there may be elements like that that must be considered," her father said, seemingly unruffled that his period of make–believe was short–changed. "If the man fed you, clothed you, educated you, gave you a nice indoor job, and freed you with a handful of money after he died – as a parent, I'd have to say that deal was a good one. It would accomplish everything I could've possibly hoped for: my child was taken care of and the future for you and your children would be brighter than it ever could have been if I'd kept you."

"And if he had lied, worked my fingers to the bone, starved me, beat me, took advantage of me, and sold me off for however much he could get later on then it was obviously a bad deal to make," Hermione said, illustrating the other side of the scenario. It sounded remarkably like what Dobby's life had been implied to have been like so far.

"Well, yes," her father agreed with a wibbly–wobble wiggle of his hands. "But you'd be alive, which is something that wouldn't have happened if you had stayed. There's a point where living in abject misery and abuse becomes worse than death, but how you judge that is rather nebulous. Regardless, it's that abusive form of slavery – the form it overwhelmingly takes – that led it to be condemned; that and the fundamental wrongness of treating human beings like property with no rights at all."

"What if they weren't human beings though and being free would kill them?" Hermione pressed.

"You mean like a robot?" her Dad asked curiously before giving her a look. "I've said it before, she may act like it sometimes, but your mother's not a robot and isn't staying with me because I charge her batteries every night."

"No, not robots," she said testily. "I'm talking about thinking, feeling, living beings."

"Hm, explain," he prompted in the one word way he had when he became really curious.

Hermione told him everything she had heard and seen that day when it came to house–elves, the treatment of Dobby, how other elves are supposedly treated in the magical world, and what Harry's lawyer had said about the centaurs and how it's best to treat everybody differently. It was a very long spur–of–the–moment lecture that her father seemed content to absorb. Thankfully he kept his questions until the end.

"If one of them is mistreated, then why don't they just leave? And sure, everyone likes to feel welcome but how is that supposed to keep them alive? Do they die from not being liked? And why the compulsion to work; how do they gain energy by expending it?" her father asked in a rapid–fire way. "Is it work they feed on, the food Lawyerman hinted at, or the magic of the person they work for? And where do they sleep, some unused part of the attic? Oh! Are they like Brownies?"

"I don't know if they can; I don't know; it sounded like they waste away and die; I don't know; I can't explain it; it seems completely contradictory; I would certainly hope not; and I'm sure they'd like brownies if they tried them," Hermione returned back shot for shot, her hair becoming an even more maddeningly frizzy as her already frazzled nerves became more frayed. She didn't like not knowing things.

"No, not like yummy brownies, Brownies brownies," her father said with a wave. "Little spritely things that live in people's houses, are never seen, and expect gifts of food for doing odd jobs around the house," he explained. "Though some say they live in streams and waterfalls, though I don't see how that could be without them tracking mud all over the place," he muttered to himself.

"Dad!" she cried, getting his attention. "What are you talking about?"

"Folklore," he said with a grin. "Brownies are a lot like what you described house–elves to be, though the only sure way to run them off is to refer to those gifts as 'payment,' and they can leave if you mistreat them. Hm, I wonder how much of our folklore is really half–remembered bits of the magical world that's managed to bleed through. You know, with a name like Hermione, I would've expected you to glance a bit at some folklore and mythology before now."

"Well, sorry for disappointing you for being more inclined towards practical matters," Hermione said stiffly. "I had no control over what you named me."

"Nonsense, you've never been a disappointment a day in your life," her father countered. "Though it looks like knowing about Brownies and the Philosopher's Stone would certainly be practical now."

Hermione felt her stomach plummet and the rest of her go numb. How much did he know?

"Oh, I suppose I should mention that the Ron kid started blabbing everything about what you never told me about, huh?" her father said with an eyebrow raised.

They were moving to Australia, she just knew it. Her mother had a standing offer there and had almost taken it several times before now, but whatever cost–benefit analysis went on in her robotic brain it had always come back with a baffling 'not yet.'

With her being able to put them off discussing "the options" once before, she knew she wouldn't be so lucky this time. Having control of her magical education didn't amount to much if her family relocated. Both Hogwarts and the Ministry would surely back her parents' decision if she protested; she had no means to travel on her own, had no money, and couldn't pay for school even if she could bring herself to run away.

And on top of all that, the one person who might be able to help was Harry and she certainly wasn't going to abuse their friendship like that, especially not when things were just starting to go in the right direction between them. Hermione didn't know how she was going to get herself out of this; she'd never had to beg for anything in her life but fear was a great motivator to learn if she had to.

"You look like you're going to faint," her dad said cautiously. "You want to switch positions so you can lie down?"

"Dad, I–I'm–," she stammered, at a loss of what to say. She was going to kill Ron for this.

"–Disappearing into a world full of unknown dangers – and now obviously questionable ethics and morals too – but are more terrified at the thought of leaving it than you are of continuing to face those enormous dangers, so you've taken it upon yourself to hide all of this from us thinking that if you somehow make it through unharmed that we don't have to know and won't be worried about you. Oh! Plus, there's a boy involved. Is that about the size of it?"

Hermione sat there with her mouth helplessly open, unable to come up with anything to add to the conversation. How could he have gotten everything so right so quickly?

"I'm not stupid," her father said with a 'who do you think you're talking to?' expression on his face. "Keeping something like this from your mother I can kind of understand, but you told me about Harry, for goodness sake. Plus, I'm a parent; I'm going to worry no matter what. I know I'm not going to be that big of an influence on your life anymore but how am I supposed to help you deal all this magical world madness if you don't tell me about it?"

Finally something clicked in her head and her mind sprang into gear.

"You're not going to tell Mum?" Hermione asked, astonished at her luck.

"I don't want to move to Australia any more than you do," he said with a look that said she was mad. "Their toilets go backwards and the seasons are weird. Who wants to have Christmas in the summer? Besides, why should we be the ones to leave? These wizardy folks are the ones that can't get their act together. First a money–laundering Merlin then a self–defense instructor that tries to kill their students. That's one hell of a pop–quiz."

Springing up, she darted to her dad and hugged him around the neck. With a falsely exasperated cry of alarm he moved her hair so that it wasn't in his face and hugged her in return.

"Thanks," she said, like she'd said so many times before, feeling a bit of a return to their old closer relationship. Why had she convinced herself that he would've taken this so badly? He was always on her side about everything.

"Yeah, well," he said somberly, "I figure if this stuff happens in stodgy old England, the rest of the world must be completely unlivable. You just promise me something," he said as he held her at arm's length to look her in the eye.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Don't you buy into everything these people tell you about the way the world works just being 'the way the world works,'" Serious Dad said with the same sad eyes he had when his parents were mentioned. "You question things and figure it out for yourself. And while you're at it," he added with a pointed finger to make sure she didn't forget this next part. "Never forget that just because you have to go there to learn, that doesn't mean you can't walk away if what you find there isn't worth the price you pay to be there. We still have that college fund for you."

This had her right back to feeling bad again. She wanted to say that of course she'd be objective and make up her own mind about things based on what she learned, but that last bit kept her from it. With Harry learning more about his family, cutting ties with the Dursleys, and trying to make a life for himself somewhere he's actually wanted, when it came to being in the wizarding world Hermione had more care to stay than will to go.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said somewhat sadly.

"So! The Brownies that aren't Brownies," her father said in that falsely chipper way he got. "The whole thing seems like it was made to be an exercise in dubious morality," he said with a look. "I suppose the whole thing revolves around whether they actually require a foreign family unit to live and why that is."

"If they really do need a family to survive then the right thing to do would be to keep them and make them feel welcome," Hermione said, taking up the issue from him. "But if they don't then the right thing to do would be to – What, convince them they don't need us and help them move out on their own? But if we did that it puts them in a very weak position. If they do require work to sustain their health on top of their basic needs, then how can they argue for a decent wage in a society that's used to getting that work for free?"

"People could just wait until an elf's almost at the point of death and then swoop in and get them back as slaves," her father said with a wave. "That means you'd have to change the culture, not only of house–elves but of the society as a whole or the entire thing would collapse. But there's also something we haven't considered," he said seriously. "If house–elves are brownies, then we'd have to take that into account."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there are stories of a type of brownie in Scotland that lives out in the wild near streams and waterfalls and doesn't give domestic help. Then there're stories of brownies that live near water but do come indoors and give that help. Then there are the stories of brownies that actually live in your house and takes gifts in exchange for that work," he explained.

"So if you take those stories as fact," Hermione said, "then that means that they adapted over time to live with human beings."

"Precisely," he said with a pointed finger. "This will sound crass because we're dealing with an intelligent species, but human civilization rests upon the domestication of plants and animals, a process that requires generations of sustained contact to slowly mold the original wild creature into a serviceable domestic form."

"You don't domesticate people!" Hermione said shocked.

"What do you think slavery is?" he asked her. "And as long as there have been human beings there's been human slavery; it's only in the last two hundred years that we've kicked the habit, and now we have predatory employers that treat their workers as virtual slaves. You could argue that the entire economic system is a domesticated form of–"

"So what does this mean for house–elves?" she interrupted.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug, "this is all supposition. But there is a chance that their need for a family, their need to work, is entirely cultural."

"Meaning wizards have brainwashed them into–"

"Not necessarily," her father cut in. "The house–elves may have convinced themselves that they need the human family to survive. Think about it, if they were brownies, and if they did move from the wild into the home hundreds of years ago, then that's the only life these house–elves know now – meaning they've lost the knowledge of whatever skills they had as brownies that let them survive in the wild."

"So they'd be like tigers born in captivity?"

"They could be," he said with a shrug. "And we don't know what they were like before, so we can't say why they made the change at all or if they got anything out of it."

Hermione's eyes popped. "Like their magic."

Her father looked impressed. "Now that's a thought. Anyway," he continued, "If you freed every house–elf in the country right now, and told them to go and live on their own they might not have a clue what to do. And worse, they might lose anything they gained, so how to get food, how to protect themselves, and all the other things you need to be able to survive would be completely foreign to them – which is one reason I've never liked camping, I'd be lost in the wild – literally."

"So any house–elf that left the human home they were born into would either have to find another human home or risk not being able to support itself, and they couldn't live outside the home on their own because the culture is so accustomed to get their work for free."

"Right, and if they failed to live on their own, that would convince the other house–elves that leaving the human home means death, which in time may morph into the belief that they _can't_ leave. But that's forgetting another obvious fact," he pointed out.

"What's that?"

"Magic," he said, spreading his arms wide. "We're thinking about them like they're normal creatures that evolved this way, but maybe there's something about the house–elves themselves that prohibits them from leaving. Maybe it's some spell–thingy that's passed down from generation to generation, or maybe it really is 'just the way the world works,'" he shrugged. "Without having one to ask and tinker around with to see what works, what doesn't, and why, then this is all a bunch of navel–gazing."

Hermione couldn't help but to make another face. As much as she hated not knowing something she hated not being able to know it even more. She supposed she could ask Harry about asking Dobby about all this but didn't want to look like she was taking advantage.

"Speaking of navels, your mother sent this," he said, handing her the cloth bundle.

"How do you go from navels to mother?" she asked.

"Well, where do you think you got your navel from?" he asked, poking her belly button. "Umbilicus," he said smiling. "Besides, it's not as cumbersome as my next segue is."

"What's your next segue?" she asked, turning back to the desk to unwrap the bundle and find that it was a shirt and sundry items to last her until they got home tomorrow.

"Wouldn't you rather ask why I was wearing an owl on my head?"

She paused a moment to sigh and roll her eyes before looking back at the madman she called a father. "Why were you wearing an owl on your head?"

"Because the mirror in my room insulted me," he said with a mad grin. "It called it a bird's nest. But speaking of mirror images," he said, making the awkward transition. "I don't like the thought of me having some doppelganger wandering around this place. What if I run into some mad creditor that tries to rob me?"

"That'd be much more likely from the goblins," Hermione said. "You know they almost killed you today for what you said?"

"Well they were being particularly shifty," her father tried to defend himself. "That ancestry thing had 'let's take advantage of gullible tourists' written all over it. Though I suppose I shouldn't have implied that right in front of them, huh?"

She gave him a look.

"Yeah, well," he waved dismissively, "That's yet another reason it'd be best for me to stay right here tomorrow until we're ready to leave. And since you've got the hang of dealing with them, I guess I can let you handle your own banking from now on," he said as he passed the pouch of wizarding money he had to her.

"And what am I supposed to do if someone tries to rob me?"

"Use your stick thingy on them," he said, referring to her wand. "If you survived a troll, a mugger should be no problem," he held his hands up in front of him silently saying that he wouldn't like to deal with either one, before getting up and walking to the door.

"Oh," he said, turning back to her. "I know he's only twelve, and we're all insensitive arseholes around then, but any guy who sends you crying into a bathroom isn't exactly the kind of friend you should be looking for."

"Ron's not that bad all the time," Hermione said, though truth be told he was more Harry's friend than he was hers; more of a friend by association. If only he had the brains that usually went with an interest in chess he might not be bad at all, just a little lazy.

"Just take it as said," he said, holding his hands up again in his 'I'm only saying this to fulfil my obligations under the Parental Code of Conduct' way of doing things.

When he opened the door quite a bit of noise wafted in from downstairs. Her father stuck his head out to see what was going on.

"It looks like this place just got a lot more popular," he said. "You might want to grab the bathroom while you can, but I'm going first!" he grinned and darted out.

Shaking her head, Hermione closed the door and went about organizing everything from the bundle that her mother had sent. It didn't take long, it was very spartan. Lamenting her mother's choice in clothing, she picked up the white long–sleeved top she had been given that Christmas and never worn. While the sleeves no doubt served to make the bundling process easier, it wasn't what you'd want to wear on a summer day when you might get nervous around your... interest?

Hermione paused for a moment to try and classify precisely what category she and Harry fit into now before having to give it up as a bad job. _'It's probably more of a spectrum than rigidly defined categories anyway_,' she thought.

"I wish she had sent that light–weight blue top of mine," she murmured to herself.

There was a bounce of bed springs behind her, making Hermione spin around, expecting to see that her father poised and ready to spring and surprise her. Thankfully, he wasn't there. What was laid out on the bedspread, however, was the light–weight light blue top she had wanted.

Hermione knew that she was probably imagining things and items you wanted randomly appearing might be par for the course for magical inns, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was someone else in the room. Had Harry sent Dobby to make sure that she had everything she needed?

"I'd like my blue handled hairbrush?" she tentatively asked the room.

On the desk to her right, her favorite blue handled hairbrush slightly rocked back and forth as if someone had just set it down.

"And my bathrobe?" she asked, peering around hoping to see Dobby this time.

On the far side of the room, a house–elf appeared. But it wasn't Dobby. With a gesture her pink bathrobe appeared on a peg by the door.

"Hello," Hermione said before the creature could disappear again. She walked over and couched down so that she wouldn't tower over it. Dark of hair and eye, this house–elf looked decidedly female. "Do you work here?" she asked.

The little creature gave a cute little curtsy before shaking her head.

"Oh, no, Miss Knee," she said eagerly. "Mister Lichy sent me."

Hermione knew that there was only one person 'Mister Lichy' could be.

"So you must be Mipsy?"

"Oh, yes, Miss," Mipsy nodded. "Mister Lichy said he's your littergator, and that means yous like family," she beamed.

.o0O0o.

The odd little thing was still trotting back and forth to the table when the floo flared. Her brothers descended on Harry almost as soon as he arrived.

"So how'd it go?" George asked.

"Was it really as mad as Ron said?" Fred wanted to know.

"Boys! Leave him alone," their mother said from her spot at the table next to Ginny. "Good to have you back, Harry, you're just in time," she said with a smile.

"Thanks," he said, running a hand through that ugly moppy hair of his before turning to the elf that was floating dishes piled high with food to the table. "How are you feeling, Dobby?"

"Dobby is feeling much better, Harry Potter, sir," the strange little creature said.

"Where'd you get a house–elf?" George asked as the guys made their way to the table.

"Yeah, usually they come with huge old mansions and places like that," Ron said as he took his place on Harry's right. Harry didn't as much as look at her.

"Mum's always wanted one, of course," Fred put in as the guys bunched together on the far side of the table by her dad.

"And who wouldn't? They're wonderful creatures," her mother gushed before patting the little thing on its head as it passed by. "We would have gotten one years ago, but we could never find anyone who'd even consider parting with theirs."

Harry looked kind of uncomfortable, like he didn't want to discuss the elf. Where had he gotten one though? They were supposed to be really hard to come by. Before they could press him any further her mother came to the rescue.

"And just where do you think you're going, little mister?" she asked the elf as it was walking off, the table having been set.

It didn't look like it knew how to respond.

"D–Dobby just be going to start the laundry, ma'am," he said pointing to the area her mother always used to wash and sort laundry.

"Oh, ma'am, listen to him," her mother smiled, "He's so nice. You can start on that later, if Harry wants you too, but there's a rule in this house: whenever possible, the family eats together," she said firmly before turning to Harry. "I hope you don't mind, dear."

"Not at all," Harry smiled.

"Come on, Ginny, budge up," her mother said, giving her a shooing motion as she moved to make room between them.

With a twirl of her wand, their old wooden high chair appeared and before Ginny knew what was happening, the elf was sitting right next to her with a stunned expression on its face.

"Good news," Fred said, leaning over to her and absolutely failing to hide how funny he found the situation. "Looks like you're not the baby anymore, Gin–gin."

That seemed to be the last thing anyone had to say to her. With the boys talking amongst themselves and her mum preoccupied with keeping the 'it's–not–a–baby' house–elf from wandering off, for the rest of the meal it seemed like she didn't exist.

They didn't even acknowledge her presence when they brought up the Hogwarts Hopefuls meeting the next day. Ginny thought that the least they could've done was invite her to go, she had almost been a Hopeful after all. She might have wanted not to be treated like a baby anymore, but she didn't want to be forgotten.

"With it not being until noon," her mother was saying to Harry, "that gives you plenty of time to have a bit of a lie–in."

Ginny made a quick mental plan. If she was down in the kitchen when Harry and Percy left, they might invite her along.

"Actually, I've still got all my shopping to do," Harry said with a bit of a blush. "I didn't manage to get anything today, so I'll be doing that with Hermione tomorrow."

"Seeing her again so soon?" George asked with a teasing smile.

"You can see a girl more than once a summer, George," their mother scolded. "Percy's seeing Penelope again tomorrow too," she revealed, causing the boy in question to bury himself in his plate. "What was it you were saying about Lockhart, dear?" she asked the particularly pinkish Percy.

Apparently, Gilderoy Lockhart had a very bad day too, even after her father had been thrown out of the shop for fighting. From what Percy said several of the women gathered for the book signing started questioning how he could have vanquished a werewolf or wrestled a yeti into submission if he had such a poor performance in fending off some decrepit old man. Though why anyone would want to attack him was beyond her.

As the story went on and on one thing became painfully clear: she was going to look stupid using that peacock-like quill now. With old clothes, battered books, and now a new quill that people would make fun of her for, Ginny just couldn't catch a break. At least her wand was new, though that probably had more to do with no one selling hand-me-down wands than anything else.

As her mother carried Dobby off to get his sleeping arrangements figured out Ginny dawdled just out of sight of the kitchen, hoping to hear how Harry's not-really-a-date thing went. What she heard though was something else entirely.

"Do you guys have anything to start a fire with?" Harry asked Fred and George.

Looking down into the backyard from her room some time later, Ginny saw the tiny flames slowly devouring some old pillowcase. Horribly dirty, the soiled cloth sack didn't burn well and she could smell it from her window, but none of the boys seemed to mind; the elf seemed to scarcely believe it was happening, and that was before Fred and George produced some Filibuster Fireworks and had small stars whizzing about all over the place.

She didn't know whether Harry knew what to do with a house-elf, having sent him off to "go play" by chasing the stars around rather than having him clean or do laundry. Her brothers seemed to think it funny though, watching the elf run around the fire like that. Ron had even gone inside to get the Quaffle and added a game of catch with him into the mix.

It wasn't until her father had doused the smoldering ashes, Ron had gone inside to ready the chessboard, and Dobby had disappeared to find some work to do that Fred and George had managed to corner Harry about the most important bit of the day.

"So how'd it go?" the dark blob of Fred asked in the deepening darkness.

"How'd what go?" Harry asked.

"Your date with Hermione, of course," he prompted.

"We never said it was a date," Harry hedged.

"Ah, but did you ever say that it wasn't?" the bit of darkness George occupied asked.

There was a very pregnant pause after that.

_'__Why did he have to ask that?'_ Ginny thought to herself.

"Well, no," Harry answered. "Was I supposed to?"

"Normally, yeah, people would."

"But keeping things uncertain like that, that's brilliant," Fred said. Ginny was sure he'd be grinning, but it was too dark outside and the angle from the window too steep for her to even begin to tell if that were true.

"What? How?" a confused Harry asked.

"Because if she thought it was a date, and it went well – then you can go back later on and say that it was a date," Fred quickly explained. "But if it didn't go well, or if she didn't think it was a date – then it didn't matter because you can always claim that it wasn't a date. As a dating strategy–"

"Don't mind him, Harry," George said, cutting off his twin. "He's just looking for a way to get things started with a certain Quidditch witch."

"Oh, like you're not," Fred beat the Bludger of an allegation back at his brother.

"Whether I am or not has absolutely no bearing on this conversation," George said smoothly. "I can keep those issues completely separate."

"–And all I'm saying is that if Harry can turn the biggest walking, talking library that Hogwarts has ever seen into an actual girl then he just might be someone to pick up pointers from," Fred pointed out.

There was another pause before anyone spoke. "Good point," George agreed.

"I don't know what pointers you can get from me," Harry said, trying to deflect attention away in that humble way of his. "I've never had a girl like me before."

"Well, I guess we can put it down as natural talent, next to youngest Seeker in a century–"

"Yes, and at the rate he's going, before you know it our little Harry will have his first kiss," Fred joked.

The silence that came from below was deafening and Ginny felt her stomach plummet. _'Why wasn't anyone laughing?'_

"Did you snog her?" Fred's jesting voice asked.

"What? No–" Harry tried to protest.

"–Ah, so she snogged you," George needled. Why did Ginny ever think that he was a good guy?

"She kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye; that was all," Harry said, probably embarrassed. "No one snogged anyone."

Up in her room, Ginny closed the window, shutting out the sound from below. She didn't want to know any more.

_'__A kiss on the cheek? How could he say 'that was all' to something like that?'_ she thought._ 'It was only the purest, most chaste way to show true love that ever existed_.'

Hermione had played it smart; Ginny couldn't even say that she was a strumpet for kissing him so soon by doing it like that. It was awful, but only she'd be the one to see that. Her mother certainly wouldn't. Luckily she had someone to turn to.

Taking out the diary she wrote, _'Oh, Tom, this is awful. The most horrible thing's happened_.'

.o0O0o.

**AN:** The reaction most people have Mrs. Weasley take when it comes to house–elves is a kind of prideful stubbornness that causes animosity for everyone involved. But why would this be the case if she's always wanted one – and it's said in the books that she did. With that many people in the house she could use the extra help. And while having that help be available – much less so eager to work – would be something she's not used to, she's also not used to the delicate social dance that comes with it.

Harry's a guest, which means that he should be given a warm welcome and hospitality. Dobby is Harry's elf and also a guest, and therefore should be treated the same – but how are you hospitable to a house–elf? Is it the same as with a human and you say that they don't need to help out? Or is hospitality to them letting them do as much work as they want? The two social niceties are contradictory, which has her accepting his help with dinner and then putting him in a high chair to eat it. Add that to the realization that her nest is going to be empty soon then has her treat him as a baby, which I find hilarious.

As always, thanks for reading.


	19. Pinky and the Brain

**AN:** The title of this chapter is a little anachronistic; the television show didn't come out until 1995, three years after this story begins, but it really has nothing to do with the show at all. It's just a reference you might recognize that has tangential meaning to what happens below.

.o0O0o.

Standing next to the street sign for Privet Drive, the old man looked up at the early morning sun and adjusted his bowler hat so that it covered one eye more fully. Some distance behind him, wishing he knew more about what that eye of Alastor's could do, Lester tapped his wand to pink fuzzy muggle slippers and waved it over the bushes in front of him so that he could move silently through the undergrowth.

It would be just like the man to stick something in his skull that could see through solid walls, look in every direction at once, and fire Killing Curses when he was mad – which would make sneaking up on him nigh impossible, and deadly... though it was also like him to let you think that it could do all that too, just to throw you off.

As the man in front of him reached into his jacket to check his watch again Lester finally moved. Stepping lively, the suburban shrubbery moving silently around his purple bathrobe, he darted forward and pegged his wand to the man's back.

"Gotcha," he said, gruffly triumphant.

As the trapped man slowly turned, his face and body started to shift and Lester knew that he'd been tricked. He felt the tip of a wand in his back just before he heard his old friend speak.

"Constant vigilance," his old auror trainer said from behind him as a heart-faced girl with pink hair smiled benignly at him, completely unconcerned at the wand he had pointed at her.

"I didn't know you'd be bringing Pinky," Lichfield said, pocketing his wand as he turned to see his friend suddenly appear from beneath an invisibility cloak. "Well now, that's just cheating," he gestured to the silvery material of the cloak as Alastor stuffed it into a pocket of his tweed jacket.

"Says the man who lost," the spiky-haired girl said with a grin.

"At least you didn't trip yourself this time," Lester said with a look. "Why'd you bring her?" he asked his friend.

"The sooner I get her trained, the sooner I retire," Alastor said, plucking his bowler off Pinky's head and sticking it on his, lowering it over his artificial eye. "And where else is she going to see an old family bailiff in action?" he asked, taking out a single piece of folded paper and handing it to him.

He grunted in response as he briefly scanned the document. It was concise and by-the-book, hallmarks of Hammerhand's work, and the signatures were right at first glance – though it only gave glimmers as to how all of this had gone so horribly wrong.

"So what have you got for me?" Alastor asked glancing at the pocket of his bathrobe.

Out of the pocket Lester drew a vial filled with a swirling silvery substance.

"You'll want to look into that," he said, giving the old auror the vial and pocketing the paper. "Discretely."

Moody grunted and stowed the vial away for later.

"So where are we?" the girl asked, transfiguring her robes into a pair of ripped jeans and a tee-shirt, which he took to be more fitting for the environment. "And what are we doing in a muggle area anyway?"

"You didn't tell her what's going on?" Lester asked the old auror.

"They don't pay me to hold someone's hand," Moody rumbled back at him. "Let her figure it out for herself. Which one of these is it?" he asked squinting at the surrounding homes with his exposed eye.

"It's down here, number four," Lester gestured as he lead the strange procession through the unsuspecting suburb, Moody stumping along behind with a limp.

"This place is spooky," the pink-haired girl said as Lester stooped to pick up the newspaper in front of number four. "They're all exactly the same; it's not natural."

"Thought you had muggle in you," Moody said to the girl.

"Just because my dad's muggleborn doesn't mean I lived there. You could have dressed a bit more naturally though," she said, giving Lester an appraising look.

"I'll have you know that my neighbor dresses just like this when he gets his paper every morning," he replied, shaking the Dursleys' newspaper at her like a wand.

The girl was in mid eye-roll when her attention snapped back to him. "What do you mean, 'just like this'?"

"Too late!" Lester said quickly, ringing the doorbell.

Alastor glanced around and moved to flank Pinky with him as footfalls approached the door. "You doing the talking?"

"Nope," Lester replied, handing the paper to the girl, "Let Pinky do it." Her eyes quickly became the size of a house-elf's.

The front door opened before the girl could respond and the horse-faced housewife looked at them all like they were door-to-door dung salesmen. Remembering the bland girl he had once had the misfortune to meet, Lester could only conclude that life had not been kind to Petunia Evans. If anything, she looked even more plain and uninteresting than she did before.

"Yes?" she asked, scrutinizing them closely. "What do you want?"

"Wotcher," the suddenly chipper Pinky said with a smile, "I'm Dora Tonks with the Crazy Codgers' Convalescent Cottage, and I'm here with the couple of curmudgeonly coots you signed up to babysit today."

"What are you talking about?" Petunia sneered. "I never signed up for anything like that. Now get out of here before I call the police," she said, starting to close the door.

Lichfield's hand darted out and slammed against the door, holding it in place.

"That didn't help when my goblin friends came for the boy's things, now did it?" he said menacingly.

If Lester had thought the woman couldn't look any worse that was before all the blood drained from her face and her mouth sagged open stupidly.

"V-V-Vernon!" Petunia cried backing into the house away from them before bolting into what he assumed was the kitchen at the back.

Gesturing to Pinky to lead the way, the suddenly wary girl dropped the paper, drew her wand, and stepped cautiously inside. After scanning the too tidy living room and muttering a few spells to detect anything nefarious, the girl turned back to him.

"What would goblins be doing here?" she asked. "These people couldn't have a magical bone in their bodies."

"You never know," Lester said nebulously, "even a blind Niffler finds something shiny every once in a while."

The door to the kitchen crashed open and an irate Erumpet of a man charged in. "What the devil are you doing here!" he cried, a little pig of a boy trailing along behind. "Get out or I swear I'll press charges!"

"Will you now?" Moody rumbled, pushing his bowler back to expose that deranged blue eye of his spinning around in its socket. "I'd like to see that."

The Dursley man stood poleaxed for a moment, but who could say how long that would last. Lester thought it prudent to produce his wand again. The bellowing man hadn't calmed with age and he doubted whether a single Stunner would be enough to take him down any more; he had to have part Troll in him somewhere.

"Why don't we sit down, Mr. Dursley, so we can talk about your nephew?" he said, gesturing for the man to make himself at home.

"The boy's not here. He's left, and good riddance, I say!" the man fumed, his mustache bristling. "We never should've taken him in."

"So why did you?" Lichfield asked, pointing his wand at the man lest he charge again.

The wands seemed to remind the man of just what type of people he was dealing with as he suddenly forced his obese son behind him and started to back into a corner.

"You can't find us!" the Dursley man cried, looking around for some means of escape. "That freak swore if we took him in that you'd never be able to find us!"

_"__Who?"_ Lichfield demanded, wanting nothing more than the name to come from the spiteful man's mouth. As he continued to back himself into a corner, Lester knew he wouldn't be getting anywhere this way. "Pinky–"

"It's Tonks," she corrected him exasperatingly.

"You used your real name with these people?" Lester asked reprovingly. "Go take a look at what's under those stairs," he said with a wave. "It's time we get things out in the open."

"Just where do you think you're going?" the man bellowed again, the vein on his forehead starting to throb as he watched the girl leave. "You stay away from there!" he roared, darting forward to stop her.

With a jab of Lester's wand ropes shot out wrapping themselves around the marauding man and gagging him, causing him to trip and land with a crash. A lighter crash echoed it in the hallway followed with a muffled curse; Pinky must've tripped again.

"Dad!" the piggy boy squealed, grabbing its buttocks and inching along the wall to retreat into the kitchen, where his mother was peeking through the doorway.

"What's there, Pinky?" he called, already fearing the answer. How could anyone leave an infant with these people?

"There's a little door here with a lock outside any child could open," came her response. "Why would anyone – Merlin! There's a cot in here! Ack – and spiders!" The girl came marching back in scrubbing a hand through her spiky pink hair. "Was somebody living in there?"

"Yes," Lester answered gruffly, kneeling over the fallen man and pushing his wand into the man's face. "His nephew; from the day he got here until he got his Hogwarts letter. And I want to know why," he was rather surprised to see his wand shaking a bit.

A claw of a hand found his shoulder. "Too close," Alastor said, and Lester knew the old man wasn't talking about how close he'd gotten to the foul man.

With a curt nod Lester stood, letting the older man take his place. Alastor was right, he had gotten too close to the boy not to run the risk of going too far, and in truth he felt like tearing the entire house down with the Dursleys still inside, just on general principle. When had he gotten so sentimental?

"You'll want to put that rolling pin down, missy, and tell us what we want to know," Moody said to the door. "You know, it's written all over you."

After a moment Petunia reemerged, holding an envelope in front of her like a shield.

"Just-just take it," she stammered. "Just take it and go."

Moody plucked it from her hand and handed it back to him. Lester took out the letter and gave it a quick once over. It was full of vague details of the Potters' deaths, the unsuitability of Harry's godfather to look after him, how dark wizards were sure to be after them all, and ended with a guarantee that should they take Harry into their home that harm would never find them.

"Well?" Moody barked.

"This answers nothing," Lester replied. "Are you sure there's nothing else? Did you see him in person? Did you sign anything? Did you ever use blood?"

"Of course not," the woman said.

Lester glanced at the Tonks girl. "You know how to check for Obliviation, right?"

The girl looked surprised at being included again. "Oh – um – that's…"

Alastor's wand danced at Petunia with a little curlicue. "Study up," he told Tonks, "Test tomorrow, one you won't remember taking if you fail. Remember anything now?" he asked Petunia as Pinky sighed. Auror training wasn't easy, even without throwing Alastor into the mix.

"Of course not, I told you we've never met him," the woman said again, struggling with the gag that bound her husband.

Lichfield grunted in disappointment, though all things considered he should've been glad. Moody was no slouch, and impartial when investigating, so if a witness regained no memories after he was done with them there were no memories to be found, and they wanted them gone too much to lie. It would only bring them back later on when they weren't in a not-so-friendly mood once they found out they lied.

Dumbledore hadn't legally signed the kid over to them, meaning he wanted to retain any legal claim he had as a guardian – however he had managed to get that – so he hadn't overtly lied to Gringotts when he had gained control of Harry's account. But not signing the kid over to the Dursleys also meant that he had, in fact, abandoned him here, which might have been his plan all along – meaning the old man had abrogated his responsibilities to Harry and thereby should've lost any guardianship rights because of it the instant he'd done it.

Lichfield nodded, he could work with that. It didn't make sense for the old man to leave it like this though. How could the old man have promised them protection without ever being there himself? He looked down at the letter in his hand again; it was the only link between the Dursleys and Dumbledore.

On a hunch, he pressed his wand to it and cast a spell, making the entire letter glow. Turning it over, he saw an overlapping series of circles, multi-pointed stars, and runes laid out at precise angles. They practically covered the entire back page. Here was the genius of Dumbledore; Lester wouldn't even know where to begin in deciphering this – though he thought the best place to start was the strange holes interrupted the work and accounted for the only empty spaces that were there.

"Good gracious!" the woman exclaimed, drawing Lester's eyes to her again. "What is this? What's going on? What did you do!" Petunia asked, her hands glowing, covered in patches of blood red lines and runes. There was an odd sympathy going on here that didn't take a genius to figure out what it was.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said to Petunia. "That old man made you magical."

"Mummy! Give it to me. I want it," the greedy pig-boy cried as he ran back into the room. "I want to be magical too!"

The captured Erumpet struggled against the ropes so hard it looked like his head was ready to explode.

"Dudders, you–" his mother tried to warn him off.

"Here, boy, touch this," Lichfield said, holding the letter out to him.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Pinky asked. "We don't know what it does."

"Absolutely," he said, growing more convinced by the second.

Pig-boy grabbed the glowing letter, his hand coming away with the same kind of blood-red runes and swirls, leaving behind another gaping hole in the design. Piggy stared down at his hand hungrily, as if he couldn't wait to start blasting things apart with it, though thankfully that was impossible.

Lichfield negated the illumination spell on the letter causing it and the muggles' hands to stop glowing at once. He was more glad than ever that Harry was out of this house; these were the worst sort of people and he'd hate to see them if they had any actual magical ability. If the boy had taken after them he would've been a monster.

"You got what you need?" Alastor asked.

"Yeah," Lester replied, refolding the letter and putting it in his bathrobe pocket. "I've got a hunch on what this does, but I'll let you know what I find out."

"No need," the older man rebuffed the offer. "I see what this is and it looks like you've got this wrapped up, so I'll leave it with you."

"What about them?" Pinky-Tonks asked, gesturing to the muggles.

"They already know about magic so there's no breach of Secrecy. What I'd really like to see is the lot of them in jail for what they've done to the boy," Lester said with a look to the muggles in question. "But that enchantment's consanguineous, so it might be helpful to keep them around, and they might be called for questioning."

A smile crept onto his face as he looked down at the struggling man.

"But that one's not needed at all; he shares no blood relation to his nephew, and I'm willing to bet that most of the abuse came from him," Lester smiled. Suddenly the large man looked just as stupefied as when James had blasted him.

"You know the hoops you have to jump through to charge muggles with anything?" Moody asked.

"I do, but if there's one kid the Ministry would bend over backwards for, it's this one, especially when this gets out," he replied.

"That'll bring a lot of attention down on him," Moody warned.

"Name one thing that hasn't," he said dryly.

The horse-faced woman, who'd been getting progressively less attractive the entire time they've been there, fumed and had enough.

"How dare you!" she seethed, still tugging at her husband's gag. "What gives you the right to come in here and judge what we do in our own home? You freaks are nothing to us."

"Your sister gave me that right the day she married James," Lester growled. "I would've thought you and your lot would've learned your lesson about picking on wizards at your parents' funeral – you remember that day, when you blamed the lot of us for not raising the dead and couldn't accept the fact that what's gone is gone?"

"YOU FREAKS GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" the tangled man roared, finally free of his gag.

"I'll show you 'freaks,'" Lichfield said, pointing his wand at them. _"Memento!"_

With a whirl, number four dissolved and Lichfield found himself seated with Mrs. Hamilton of number one, a cup of Oolong in hand. The nice old widow was welcoming and eager to speak when she'd heard what he wanted to know.

"They're very odd people," she said, "quite loud. Sometimes I hear the man shouting at the boy right in the middle of the day all the way from here. Heaven alone knows what he's ever done to deserve it; he's always seemed polite to me, not like that ruffian of theirs."

Next he was with Ms. Sanderson of number five with a cup of Earl Grey.

"You never get a moment's peace with them always lurking about," she said, glancing at the window. "She's the worst; always trying to spy on me, she is. We call her 'the Giraffe' around here for a reason. None of my male friends or coworkers can come over without it being twisted into some salacious gossip. My _brother_ visited last year and stayed the night and you wouldn't believe what she made of that!"

The story got worse with Abby Abrams of number three; though the tea was this nice fruity infusion he didn't catch the name of.

"He's really small – not like that great fat lump of theirs – and you never see him outside unless it's to slave away for hours. I tried to bring him lemonade once but she got to it before he ever saw me; I don't know if she gave it to him or not. And I can't prove anything," she said in a whisper, "but I think they hit him. I wanted to say something, but what if I'm wrong?"

Mr. Tuttle across the way had no tea, or tact.

"They say he's a criminal, but I say they're all a bunch of freaks," he said with a glower. "The fat man's always showing off, like we care. No one wants them here – or you – now shove off."

It was hard not to sway when he found himself back in his own skin and looking down at the Dursleys again, so he settled on some quick blinking instead. "How's that for 'freaks'?" Lester asked.

They had a look on their faces of abject humiliation. Petunia abandoned her fleshy husband and ran to peek through the curtains.

"They're watching us," she said in a hushed breath, "they're judging us. How can we be freaks? We're perfectly normal."

"Abnormally normal," the pink-haired Tonks said.

"I'm not fat," the pig-boy said unconvincingly. "Mummy, say I'm not fat!"

"Get me up!" the fat man on the floor cried, his face turning purple as he struggled against the ropes. "We're going away! Far away! Where we'll find normal people to live with and won't have to put up with this nonsense!"

"And what makes you think that'll save you from us?" Lester said somewhat menacingly, though now that he was resolved to let the Ministry have the man most of the bark had gone out of him.

"Quit poking the muggles and let's go," Moody growled to him. "When they come for you, I advise you to go quietly," he said to the fat man before stumping off.

Lichfield grunted. As much as he'd like to keep tormenting them, all it'd mean was that he'd be as foul as they were. He glanced over to Tonks and headed for the door, leaving her to get in the last word.

"You have a – nice house," she said haltingly at the door, "Very clean."

Moody was outside waiting on them. It wasn't until the door to number four was closed and they started walking back that she turned to them again.

"I still don't get why we were here," she said curiously. "Was it the goblins or that letter… the kid? And what kid is it? It can't be that one. You don't call aurors for something like this."

"Yeah?" Lester asked, "Then who do you call when a troll's terrorizing a little wizarding kid? You'd be surprised at how much damage one bad guardian can do."

Pinky looked over at Moody. "D.M.L.E. or one of the ones that deal with muggles?"

He smiled, letting her know that she's just at the tip of the problem as he pulled his bowler back down over his eye. "Let me guess, sit on it?" he asked Lester.

"A few more days at least, if not longer," he said. "Let the muggles sweat a bit. The beginning of school might be best for him but this story will get out sooner or later on its own. The kid's well away from here and everyone's likely to have our hands full soon. If I get my way he'll never be coming back here. This little bit should insure that, at least."

"That still doesn't answer my question," Pinky said as they reached a safely shaded spot and Moody cast temporary charms to make them unnoticed. "What kind of kid would be raised in that house if they had a bailiff that could rain that much trouble down on them?"

He looked at her wryly. "You're not in school anymore, you're going to have to learn to use this," he said tapping her forehead, before zigzagging his finger in a lightning bolt along it.

She backed her head away and swatted his finger aside like she'd never been picked on before – before her brain caught up and started to make the little leaps needed to put everything together. Pinky darted a glance back at number four before stating the obvious.

"Those people will be torn apart, even if the Ministry doesn't do it."

"That's the plan!" Lester smiled, before disappearing with a _crack!_

.o0O0o.

The early morning sun peeking through her windows made Ginny feel so much better. Telling everything to Tom had really helped and she had slept like – well, she couldn't remember the last time she had slept so well, or been up so early. It was nice having someone to talk to.

He had also given her a plan. It wasn't much of a plan, but it seemed more likely to succeed than anything she'd been able to come up with. No more would she be moping about hoping that Harry would realize what that meant, she was going to be doing something.

Full of energy, Ginny got dressed – just simple everyday clothes, she wasn't out to impress anyone. There was no one's opinion that mattered but hers. And Tom's, but Tom was actually nice. She briefly considered pulling her hair back into a ponytail, but she really only did that when she snuck out to break into the broom shed and go flying, so she ditched the idea.

Grabbing her copy of the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ – and then doubling back to snatch the-diary-that-was-Tom out of one of her hide-a-book places by her bed – Ginny left her room. On the way down she discovered that Tom fit easily inside the back cover of her textbook, the old binding loose enough to give it enough give to make it look natural.

Right in the middle of the living room she saw a rather odd sight. Her mother stood scrutinizing every inch of the place as she slowly turned on the spot. Confused, Ginny looked around the room too. She didn't see what was so strange about it. It was clean… very clean; cleaner than she'd ever seen it before, actually, and tidier than even her mother's most frantic _'I've-got-to-fix-everything-in-the-house-today-or-I'll-go-mad'_ days had ever done.

Suddenly things didn't seem quite so homey anymore. The more she thought on it the more eerie it got. Things were too tidy, too clean. Was this what having a house-elf was going to be like? If it was, it just didn't seem right without a little mess. Her mother must've thought so too since she reached out to lower one side of the blanket that was draped over the back of the couch just a touch, moved an old vase about an inch to the left, and pulled a few of the books on the shelf out of alignment – only to poke the last one back to where it was before.

That actually seemed to make things better, and it was only when that was solved that her mother noticed her.

"You're up early," she whispered, as if afraid to disturb the quiet morning. "I think he's sleeping now," her mother said, before darting a look upstairs, "–unless he's up in your room straightening things. Either way, if you want something, I think I can manage a bit of a fry-up before he notices and starts cooking for everyone."

"Er – no, that's alright," she said in the same whisper as her mother. Thinking of the elf as this little thing that was always watching was really starting to creep her out. Was this what Harry felt like before he had her mother tell her to stay away from him? That was an uncomfortable thought.

"I'm just going to read – for school," Ginny said, quickly showing her mother the textbook when she looked at her suspiciously.

Her mother's face relaxed immediately, it may be years before she'd be able to look at a book without suspicion but at least those Harry books were out of the house. It would've been impossible to carry on having them around to constantly remind her that she just didn't measure up, how wrong she had gotten things because of them, and how stupid she was for believing them in the first place. Tom was right though, every day was a new start and there was no better time to reinvent herself than now.

"Well if you change your mind, I'll just be… um…," her mother said quietly, looking around at the tidy home. "I'll just be finding something else to do."

Ginny watched her mother wander off to the kitchen and wondered what she'd do with herself once school started. If Harry left the elf here she'd have nothing to do but go around the house all day slightly messing things up. But then he'd learn how to do that right and she wouldn't even have that to do anymore.

Taking one of the throw pillows from the couch, Ginny returned to the bottom curve of the stairs to claim her favorite seat in the house. It wasn't a particularly comfortable seat, hence the pillow, but that wasn't why she liked it. She liked it because like her, it was the only one of its kind; in a house of warm wood and comfortable cushions, it was stone.

Worn smooth by hundreds of years of being exposed to the wind and rain, the slightly round-top stone jut a good foot-and-a-half out of the floorboards, though her mother said it went deep into the earth below. Most of the time this spot wasn't even noticed but it was why the Burrow had been built where it was. The stone was supposed to be incredibly lucky, though she wasn't sure precisely how, but that was only part of why she liked it.

The real reason Ginny liked it was because sitting here she could look up and see the Burrow rise around her, the staircase coiling around like a great snake all the way to the shadowy top. You could see bits and pieces of the stairway when you climbed but this was the only spot where you could see the entire thing because you were right in the belly of the beast – right in its den. It was a very comforting feeling to be embraced like that.

With a resigned sigh, Ginny opened the book to the first page. This was going to take forever, but Tom's plan made sense. If Harry was into studying and liked girls who liked books then the only way to get close to him, once he got tired of Hermione that was, was to be prepared to out Hermione Hermione. Besides, this would give them something to talk about, her and Tom that was. She could tell him what she learned that day and he could share an interesting story that involved one of the spells, if he had one.

She just wished the plan was more interesting though; Ginny wanted to be the exciting girl, not the boring girl. She had liked the idea of setting herself apart by doing what she really wanted to do anyway, which was to play Quidditch. She didn't know much about Hermione, but one thing she did know was that she wasn't a good flier – or at least that she didn't like it. Ron had loved to mention that, the smarter-than-everyone Hermione left clueless as soon as her feet were off the ground.

As the sun started inching higher and looked to be a wonderful day for flying, Ginny had to admit that her plan seemed a lot better than Tom's. Then again, having a big book in your hands and nothing to look forward to but being stuck inside studying just couldn't compete to breaking into the broom shed and taking a ride on Harry's Nimbus 2000.

Who'd want to study when they could fly? And, if Harry had happened to see her and come outside... maybe they could fly together and he'd enjoy it so much that he'd forget that he was supposed to go anywhere else today.

That would probably spell the end of things with Hermione too. After all, what girl would want their _I'm-not-calling-them-boyfriend-and-girlfriend _to fly with another girl instead of being with her? That would lead to a fight and Hermione would show just how bossy, irritating, and anti-Quidditch she could be, leaving Ginny to be the fun one and come along to say how out-of-line Hermione was, and pick up the pieces.

Besides, what did Tom know about Harry anyway? Sure, he seemed really interested in him, but that was because she had mentioned him, and then Tom only knew what she had told him. Still, Ginny's insides squirmed at the dangers Tom had pointed out. What if Harry had gotten mad at her instead and she got punished, or thought she was being phony and that she was only doing it to make him like her, and what if he saw that other side as too sporty and she became just one of the guys?

_'Guys still go for Quidditch-girls though,_' Ginny thought to herself.

Hadn't her brothers mentioned being interested in just that very thing last night? She shuddered at the unbidden thought that came to her next – it was all sorts of wrong. That blond boy and his father from the bookstore weren't nice at all. Who'd do that with their own family?

She shook her head and tried to get through the page she was on because before long everyone else would be up and it'd probably be too loud to read. Although, if the guys did see her reading then maybe she could go back up to her room and everyone would think that's what she's doing all the time. That way she could be thought of as a bookworm without actually having to be one! It'd be the best of both worlds.

Just then she heard something thump on the floor somewhere above her and Ginny looked up the vertical shaft that ran through the Burrow to see if one of her brothers, probably Ron or the twins, were coming down for breakfast. When the seconds lingered and nothing else was heard she shrugged and went back to her reading, choosing to flip a good hundred pages ahead as if she'd been reading all this time for when someone finally did make an appearance.

Suddenly there was a _pop!_ above her followed instantly by a high-pitched yell. Ginny looked up just in time to see Harry's elf flailing its arms as it fell on her, knocking her to the floor and sending her book flying. The little thing was heavier than it looked, or at least its head was harder.

A quick set of footfalls above her was echoed by ones from the kitchen.

"What's going on?" her mother asked, as Ginny got back up with a hand to her head.

"Dobby?" Harry's voice came down from above as he hurriedly made his way downstairs.

She went over to pick up her book, and poke Tom back into the back of it where he'd started to stick out after his short trip, as her mother went to see how the elf was doing, sparing her only a brief glance. Ginny knew then that she'd been right. She should've just snuck out of her room, jumped on Harry's broom, and gone for a wild ride, taking her chances with whatever came out of it. Instead she was left wondering why she even bothered at all.

With a huff, Ginny went back to her room.

.o0O0o.

Living in tune with the forces of Good was a sensitive thing. The waves of warmth and love that emanated from the Greater Good and influenced the actions of all thinking and feeling beings worked in quiet and mysterious ways. They were so quiet, so mysterious, and so subtle that most didn't know they happened at all, and when those effects were seen they were often misinterpreted by those with less of an affinity for them. Indeed, even for one such as himself it often took quite some time to decipher what the Ultimate Purpose of those actions really were and how they served the Greater Good.

For Albus the days since that unfortunate day at the Burrow had been long days indeed, though the outcome he saw in the hallway outside his office gave him hope. Those events had to have some Ultimate Purpose, some Grand Reason behind them. If the Greater Good wanted him to be diminished in Harry's eyes so that he's seen as some distant and controlling adult that "simply didn't understand" then what better way to set up events so that all of Harry's expectations were flipped upside down and he comes to know that the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world truly did know him in a way that no others could and would always do what was best for him?

Yes, Albus knew now why all of this was happening. The Greater Good had seen how he had been torn between sharing with him the darker elements of Harry's past and what that meant for the future, like the boy had asked him to in the hospital wing just a few months past, but he had allowed his love for the boy and his desire to give him a normal childhood sway him from doing so. He had valued his relationship with the boy too much to do his duty and prepare him for the sacrifices he must make, so now the Greater Good had incorporated those events into its plans and was arranging matters to bring him and the boy closer together. And then, once that was achieved, they'd be free to go forward together as teacher and pupil – like a father and his metaphorical son.

At Hogwarts things were harder to discern. The staff that had returned so far had been avoiding him as knowledge of the bank's allegations spread. Even Severus and Minerva had turned down offers for private breakfasts in his office that he had made so they might mend the rift between them. Though they had both pledged their support for him in the privacy of that dark hallway all those nights ago, it seemed that they still couldn't bring themselves to acknowledge their failings to him yet, even in private.

It was disappointing, though he shouldn't have been surprised; not everyone had the humility he did. Albus wouldn't give up on his friends though; his steady and constant show of friendship, support, and acceptance would surely win the day in the end. This was what led him to the Great Hall day after day in the hopes that one or more of the staff would be in attendance. As he peeked around the doorway into the hall proper his heart gave a great leap in joy. Minerva was there; surely today would be the day that things started to turn around.

As Albus swept into the room, his deep purple robes particularly handsome and the star pattern it had particularly fetching, he felt his optimism rise. She didn't immediately stand and leave the high table as soon as he arrived. As steps in the right directions went, it was most certainly that.

"Ah, Minerva, it's a pleasure to see you," he said with a welcoming smile. "How are things this morning?" Albus asked as he took his seat beside her and the scant food the house-elves had supplied her grew with an additional mouth to feed. They were such marvelous creatures.

"About the same as they've been for the past two weeks," the deputy head said tersely, fingering a folded Daily Prophet. "Things haven't magically fixed themselves. Hogwarts is still greatly underfunded and no one wants to help. I've managed to scrape enough donations together to see to one new Hopeful for one year though, with perhaps a little extra for supplies."

She paused for a moment to pat her lips with a napkin. "I'm glad that Miss Weasley has been taken care of," she continued, "but I'm not looking forward to making the decision of which other child to support, or whether we should split the award; both those children deserve their chance to attend. I have hopes that today may see that problem solved though. Distant hopes, but hopes nonetheless."

In spite of the verbal barbs – born out of a wounded pride, he was sure – Albus still found reasons to smile. A somewhat prideful and terse Minerva with hope was better than one with no hope at all. And she had spoken to him more in the last minute than she had for almost a week. Things were certainly on their way to mending themselves there. Time would see them fast friends once again.

"This came for you," she said, passing the Prophet over to him. "It seems like another of your schemes has hit a rough patch."

With that the irascible Scot took her leave, the remains of her breakfast fading from the table leaving Albus alone in the cavernous room. It wasn't precisely the kind of reception he had hoped his olive branch would get, but at least she was speaking to him.

On the Prophet's front page Albus saw the most peculiar headline: _"Lockhart Gets Liched"_

_'__Who on Earth would make a pun with a word that could be pronounced three different ways?'_ Albus thought curiously.

It could be 'lich' like 'lick,' though Albus had a hard time thinking of why anyone would want to lick the man. Sure, he had sparkly teeth, shimmery blond hair, and a dreamy smile but he lacked mental acuity he was looking for. If you could stick Severus's brain into Gilderoy's body and give it a new personality entirely… then you would be getting somewhere, but that's beside the point.

They could also mean 'lich' said like 'like;' and of course Gilderoy was liked. He got liked a lot. That was the entire point of him running around the world taking credit for what other wizards had done, two of whom Albus had known and had written to him of the events as they happened. He had considered going public with those letters, but couldn't discount the possibility that they had sold the stories to Gilderoy and had never told him, though he doubted it.

Albus also supposed they could have also meant 'liched' like 'litched,' and he had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Did they mean lynched? Looking at the accompanying picture, it certainly looked like Gilderoy was surrounded by a rather unfriendly crowd but he certainly wouldn't compare being forced up on his tippy-toes by a man twisting his pinky to being hanged by an unruly mob.

In an odd twist of wording, the solution popped into his head. They did mean 'liched' like 'licked,' but with the connotation of him being beaten in a fight. Albus thought that was a lot to go through just to come up with a joke for a headline but supposed someone didn't have anything else to do that day. Certainly no one at the Prophet could bother with investigating anything, or they would've noticed that they had gotten Harry Potter in the lower-right corner of the picture.

The article itself was rather unkind, though Gilderoy would have no one to blame but himself. Apparently the people that had shown up for his book signing didn't take too well with his poor performance in fending off some decrepit old man. They had gone from swooning sycophants to harshly questioning him about every single thing about his books; wanting him to demonstrate the spells, to know who he spoke to, how he traveled from place to place, how he gets his mail so fast and all sorts of other things.

When he couldn't respond to their bombarding questions some parents in the crowd had put back their books and had bought copies of the books that the shopkeeper was holding for Harry instead. Flourish and Blotts were now refusing to accept any returns and declaring that all sales were final. That was unfortunate, though the article calling for an investigation into Lockhart's supposed good deeds around the world would certainly expose the truth.

That did leave Albus with a curious pickle, and it wasn't the one that was on his plate – though he speared that with his fork and nibbled it as he thought. With Gilderoy back in England for the release of his supposed autobiography and otherwise unengaged aside for publicity, it had seemed a perfect time to secure his services as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor here at Hogwarts.

Naturally, teaching the eager young minds of tomorrow would give the man ample opportunity to "strut his stuff" and "puff himself up" as it were. If there was anything Albus had learned throughout his long years was that children disliked even a whiff of insincerity, and that man had the stink of it all over himself. Of course the man's lies would be exposed, and of course it would be the children that would do it.

The appreciation on Harry's face spoke volumes as to why the curious bystander had come to his aid; who wouldn't want to be seen as taking up for Harry Potter? But with Gilderoy's phony façade falling off so dramatically, what Ultimate Purpose did him coming to Hogwarts now serve? If the Prophet continued to rip apart the myth of competence he had clothed himself in then there would be nothing for the children to expose. Indeed, there was now nothing for the children to learn from him at all.

Albus put a finger to his lips and nodded. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps it wasn't the children that had anything to learn from Lockhart, but Lockhart that had much to learn from them. With a smile bright enough to illuminate the entire Great Hall, Albus knew precisely what was going on here. It was one of the oldest and most compelling stories of all time: Redemption.

The Greater Good had seen the coarser parts of Albus's nature, his base desire to expose a fraud and the more refined part that wanted to do so with the simple power of children, and had used it to provide a place of safety and support that the beleaguered Lockhart could turn to when the house of cards he had built for himself had come crashing down.

It was to Hogwarts that Lockhart – harassed by the media and exposed for his lies – would come to get away from all of that and lick his wounds, and it was here that he would see the bright, youthful faces of the students. Yes, it was at Hogwarts that the fraud that was Gilderoy would die and a renewed Professor Lockhart would be born, one that – through teaching and imparting skill and knowledge that were true – would find the kind of admiration that he had always wanted.

It would be a rough road for him, true; the man had scorned hard work and study as a boy, but Albus could attest that there was nothing like teaching others to have you realize just how little you knew of the subject yourself, and to help you fill in those gaps. If Lockhart had wasted his first trip through Hogwarts seeking after quick fame and the flattery of others, this second trip may well accomplish what that first trip had failed to do – to help him grow up.

Oh yes, Albus knew that great things were in store for Gilderoy Lockhart now that the Greater Good was involved in his affairs. It was only a matter of time.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Thanks for reading.


	20. Money Matters

**AN:** My chapters are more for convenience than structure, and this one's no different. I had been thinking that this would probably be a week late or more simply because I couldn't find a stopping point and didn't want to split things up. But, like with that organic moment at the end of chapter 16, one came up that provided a way out.

Special thanks to Caelleh for his help with the new summary; I think it works much better.

.o0O0o.

If the morning air was cool and crisp, that was nothing to what it was like at a hundred miles an hour. The cold wind in his face, Draco dodged and weaved through the trees, rolled over limbs, and dived to race along the gully that ran through the forest as fast as he could. Straight ahead stood an ancient yew tree – gnarled, wide, and foreboding. With a grin he raced straight for it, pushing the broom for even more speed. At the last possible second he swerved and started to climb, rolling on his broom as he dashed through the leaves and broke through the canopy into the bright morning light.

Blinking at the sudden change, Draco slowed and came to a halt, hovering a good hundred feet in the air as he turned to take in his home. The gently rolling hills of Wiltshire spread out before him, showing but a small part of what would someday be his; it was a testament to the greatness of his bloodline. For nearly a thousand years the Malfoys had owned this land, only the greatest of them truly making the land their own.

The well-manicured lawns were rich and green, useful for annual gatherings of the who's who of wizarding society: ranking members of the Old Families, Ministry officials, foreign dignitaries, and wealthy businessmen seeking the influence his father had. This was his father's vision; him and his mother's. Everything from the mansion of a manor house with its gardens and white peacocks to the gazebo by the lake, even the little boathouse with its tiny ships shaped like swans, all of it was new, built within his lifetime or shortly before, though they liked to claim that it was older.

While growing up his mother had told him that this was what the entire world would be like once the purebloods took their proper place and ruled free of muggle filth, but now he saw it for what it was, a waste. It was nothing more than useless frills to impress people they shouldn't even be bothering with. What did it matter what the morons in the Ministry thought? The only thing that mattered was what the Malfoys told them to think. Anyone who defied them deserved to be punished – painfully, personally, and publicly. That would teach the rest to fall in line.

And what did they need a Ministry for anyway? Such a stupid way to run things; it should just be one person giving commands and having them be obeyed like it was under the Dark Lord. They didn't need clumsy clerks and bumbling bureaucrats, they needed soldiers, ones just smart enough to do what they were told but not smart enough to think for themselves – like Crabbe and Goyle. That was the one thing muggles had actually done right in their world, from what he'd been told. One man raised above others as a king, in some places revered as a god, with the power of life and death over everyone, their very word being law. That's what they should have; that's what _he_ should have.

As the sunlight warmed the chill from his body Draco couldn't keep his smirk from growing, not that he cared to. He would have it all one day; it was what he was born for. With the whole of wizarding Britain in his grip, the Dark Lord was soon to look to the continent to expand his power. That would require someone to remain behind to keep order at home. That was to be the Malfoys. They had the bloodlines, the power, and the inheritances to put themselves forward as the new ruling power in Britain. It was to be their reward for their steadfast dedication and loyalty to the cause.

With the Dark Lord dead and gone all of that had fallen away, but the confusion that followed had let many of his supporters slip away unnoticed, at least according to his mother. The ones that could lie well enough and had the means wriggled free, like his father, while others sold out supporters they knew to save themselves or went overseas, while still others slunk back into a life of crime. The Dark Lord had taken all kinds, even werewolves; the subhuman monsters deserved to be hunted down like the dogs they were once they no longer had a use.

But all of them would be back, he knew, once another man stepped forward with the guts to do what it took to put the mudbloods in their place and put fear back into the rest of the population. For a time, some – like his mother – had thought that would be Potter. The Perfect Poncy Prince Potter; how could anyone think that he'd be the new Dark Lord? Draco had known he'd never measure up the moment he'd seen him on the train, but he still lowered himself to extend his hand because that's what his parents had wanted – only then to be passed over for a Mudblood, a Blood Traitor, and an oafish wild man who lived in a hut and smelled like wet dog.

_'"Only a more powerful Dark Lord could defeat the Dark Lord,_'" he mentally mocked in his mother's voice._ '"The Dark Lord will want him as one of ours when he returns from Beyond the Grave" indeed,_' Draco rolled his eyes.

His mother was an idiot and his father was a fool. Make friends with Potter, they said; get in good with Potter, they said. Show him the right people to know, steer him down the proper path, and get him involved with a proper Pureblood girl. How was he supposed to do all that when he showed up wearing baggy muggle clothes like some house-elf and didn't know anything about anything – and then chose to spit on his offer to look past all that?

Draco had only done what his father would've done – if he couldn't be made into an ally that could be stabbed in the back later on he'd marked him as a Blood Traitor to be crushed under his shoe. He had no call to be mad at him for that, none! It's what he'd been trained to do. If Potter had spit in his father's face he wouldn't have turned around and offered to kiss the boy's arse; that's not what Malfoys do.

Malfoys get even; they find out what you're doing and tell it to those that'll get you in trouble. They drag you down into the dirt and bury you; that's all he'd been doing. It wasn't his fault that McGonagall and Dumbledore thought Potter's shite smelled like roses and tasted like chocolate, but his father didn't want to hear it. Somehow he'd learned about that spat with Potter last year and blamed him for making it so public saying, "changes were going to have to be made."

_'Changes were _not_ going to be made,_' Draco thought as he scanned the grounds for somewhere new to fly._ 'Father has no right to treat me like this. I was born for this, I was born to rule. The only failure here were his and Potter's for not doing what they were told.'_

He'd get his mother to agree with him, Draco thought as he decided that there was nothing worth flying over, or at least nothing new. He had wanted a full Quidditch stadium put in so he could play properly but his father had refused to "erect an eye-sore" on his perfect estate. He'd also just went back on his promise to buy him his new broom. They would just have to see about that.

The Comet 260 he had was nothing. It was almost three years old already, that's ancient, and as much as it galled him, Weasley was right about them. They looked flashy, which was why he'd wanted it, but they really were no match for the Nimbus series. And then Potter showed up with his gift-wrapped Nimbus 2000 and was anointed the Youngest Seeker in a Century and praised for luck they took as skill. It was ridiculous.

If his father refused to help then his mother should be able to do something about all that. She was the last of the Black family that wasn't in prison for following the Dark Lord and there was an entire fortune out there just waiting for Draco to inherit it when he came of age. He didn't need his father; his mother should be able to access that, then he'd get his broom. He'd get his broom, get his way onto the team even if he had to buy his way on, and he'd show Potter what a proper Pureblood could do in the sky.

With the Heir causing trouble at Hogwarts, one thing was certain: this was going to be Draco's year. He'd kick the legs out from under Potter by crushing him at Quidditch, he'd find the Heir, and partner with him so that he could do what he should've been able to do last year with Scarhead: play along as the stalwart ally until he knew all the Heir's secrets and then stab him in the back and take over. Oh yes, this was going to be his year.

With one last look at the tiny buildings by the lake, Draco wished he knew the really good spells already – the ones that'd cause fires or make things explode – because he'd really like nothing better to blast that gazebo apart and set fire to those stupid swans. Pansy liked the boats though, the few times he'd let her visit, and he liked how she hung all over him, so he supposed they had some use.

With a growing rumble in his stomach, he wondered if there was any food in the house, or even if there was anyone who knew how to make any. How could his father have sold off their servant? He'd better not expect his mother to do any work or Draco suspected he'd soon find himself being the last of his line, which would solve all of Draco's troubles, of course. With a smirk, he thought about getting Pansy to do all that cooking and cleaning for them, she was always very thankful to them for "everything they'd done for her," the idiot.

There had to be a kitchen in that house somewhere, and with that in mind Draco set off back to the manor. By the time he'd gotten home he'd decided: once his father was dead he was tearing the whole place down, building a castle, and buying a whole herd of house-elves.

.o0O0o.

Regardless of what he'd thought of using the floo, Harry found himself eating. The bit of toast was supposed to settle his stomach but he didn't think it helped that much. It gave him something to do as the minutes dragged by though and it was easier to concentrate on taking a bite, chewing, and looking at his watch again than to pay attention to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's pre-going-to-work conversation. He didn't want to be late, but showing up early felt like a bad thing to do too.

Harry found it very hard to focus on anything but the slow passage of time. If the guys had been awake and here to distract him it might not have been so bad… but then again, it might've been so much worse. Fred and George would probably go on and on about the date with Hermione – was that the right word? She had kissed his cheek… that he'd probably be so nervous that he'd get sick.

He hadn't felt this way since his first Quidditch game last year, but at least then he had had practices to prepare him for it. _'Was that what this was,_' Harry wondered,_ 'just a practice for the real thing?'_ That actually helped settle his stomach a bit so he could pry his attention away from the time; it hadn't seemed to change for half an hour.

"That's up to Harry, of course, but it's not like this is permanent," Arthur said to his wife, drawing Harry into the conversation.

"Sorry, what's that?" he asked, looking to Mrs. Weasley, who was back at home in her kitchen. Once she had made sure that his head was okay and he had suitably recovered from the fall, she had managed to distract Dobby by sending him out to clean all of Arthur's "muggle artifacts" in the garage, leaving her free to cook them breakfast.

"We were just wondering what you were doing with Dobby this year once school starts back, that was all," Mrs. Weasley said with a wave. "Any more toast, dear?" she asked.

For a moment Harry was unsure if it was him or her husband that she was talking to. Her habit of calling everyone dear was kind of confusing. Looking over at Arthur, who had his napkin on his plate signaling he was through with his meal, told Harry she was talking to him.

"Er – no, that's alright," he said, wiping his fingers on a pair of Ron's old jeans Mrs. Weasley had let him use. "It depends on what Dobby wants, I guess," Harry said, answering their question about the elf. "I said he could go to Hogwarts with me, but I'm not sure how much work there will be for him to do there. He's free to come here for more work whenever he wants though."

"Well, if he's only here part of the time, that won't be so bad, will it?" Arthur said merrily. "Molly's afraid that she won't have anything to do," Mr. Weasley explained, "but I say she's due for a good break."

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself with a break," Molly said, gathering up the dishes with a wave of her wand and immediately starting to wash them. "It's been non-stop work almost since the day we got married. I might just go mad tottering around this place by myself with nothing to do."

"There's always finding something to do outside of the home," her husband suggested tentatively.

Tentatively or not, Molly still dropped the dishes in the sink with a crash, her eyes popping at the suggestion. "I can't work, I have children," she protested with an astonished look on her face.

"Children who are all school age or older," Arthur gently reminded her.

Harry felt rather uncomfortable being stuck in the middle of such an adult conversation. He doubted they'd even have it if their own children were there but supposed his status as an outsider and tenant put him in a different category to them. Harry tried to pretend he couldn't hear them; he didn't want to interrupt.

"They still need their mother," she muttered, going back to work.

"And they'll always need their mother," Arthur agreed diplomatically. "But we'll really only see them at Christmases and summers from now on," he gently pushed. "Didn't you say that Glinda Goodwitch was retiring?" her husband asked curiously.

Eyes ping-ponging back to Mrs. Weasley, Harry saw her next objection stopped by the sudden change of topic.

"Yes," she finally said a bit cautiously as if feeling out a trap. "I for one am sorry to see her go."

"Who's Glinda Goodwitch?" Harry asked, unable to keep his curiosity under wraps.

"Oh, she's this darling woman with a column in the Prophet," she said with a wave as a _tap-tap_ came from the window behind him. Harry turned to see a rather fluffy owl sitting on the sill. "Speaking of, could you get that, dear?" she said, gesturing at Arthur this time.

"She was ever so helpful when we were starting out," she said as her husband went to check the mail. "Advice for this and that, tricky solutions for problem pests, household stuff and childrearing mostly – not like we'll need it now that we've got Lockhart's books."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Arthur said, taking a look at the paper. "Look at this," he prompted, handing it over to her.

"That's a horrible headline," she said critically, "that doesn't look like he's being liked at all. Oh! That's Lichfield – Now the headline's even worse. You don't say his name like that."

"Don't look at the headline, look at the article," her exasperated husband said. "It said that he couldn't answer the most basic questions and refused to do even the simplest spells. How could he wrestle a Yeti into submission if he gets stopped by his own pinky?"

"Yes, well, Lichfield was an auror, wasn't he?" she asked somewhat defensively.

"I still wouldn't bet on him wrestling against a–"

"Lichfield was an auror?" Harry asked, curious about what the dark wizard catchers really did.

"That was the rumor that was going around years ago," Molly said with a wave, still studying the paper, "but I don't know if it's true. Why was he beating up on Lockhart anyway?" she asked him in return.

"He wanted to use me to make the front page and got all grabby," Harry said, somewhat annoyed at the thought.

"Well he certainly accomplished that," Molly said peering at the picture. "Oh look, there you are too. Don't you look handsome?"

"You know, I bet the Prophet's looking for someone to take over for Glenda," Mr. Weasley said, coming to his rescue.

"Good luck finding them," she said, handing the paper back to him and moving to put the dishes away. "That woman knew everything."

"Well, she certainly seemed to," he said judiciously. "Whoever they get will need a lot of homemaking experience, and you can't fake that. But when you think of it," he softly pushed again, "answering two letters a column three times a week is hardly what you call work, and she probably had a hundred letters a day to choose from. That's the kind of thing she could do from home and still look after the house if she needed."

"That's true," Molly said thoughtfully before her head whipped around to her husband. "You can't be serious," she said with a look that said the entire idea was ludicrous. "Me, a Glenda Goodwitch?"

"Well I'm sure they'd give you a different name, and it's not like we couldn't use the money," Arthur said hurriedly, glancing at his watch. "Merlin, look at the time. I'm going to be late."

"Arthur, I'm really not sure about this," she said as she followed her retreating husband out of the back door.

A small _pop!_ signaled the end of the conversation though as Mr. Weasley disappeared. With a smile Harry wondered who would win when he got back. With a spike of fear, Harry looked at the time. It was already five after! Where had all the time gone? Bolting to the fireplace, he took a pinch of powder from the flowerpot and threw it into the flames causing them to turn green and flare towards the ceiling.

"Have a good day, dear," Mrs. Weasley said with a wave as she came back inside.

Before Harry could even open his mouth to say thanks he heard a series of sharp trumpet blasts from outside, followed quickly by a loud, metallically rending _CRASH!_

"What in Merlin's–!" Molly asked as she spun back to the doorway.

The green flames died away as Harry darted to the window to see what was going on. To his surprise he saw a tiny blue car zooming around the yard, slightly scuffed from where it tore a hole in the Weasleys' metal garage. As he watched, the car threw open its doors and started zig-zagging as if it were trying to throw something out. As it zipped past the window and footfalls were heard on the stairs, Harry heard a panicked little scream from the car that could only be Dobby.

As they dashed out into the yard to save the house-elf Harry just had to wonder, if he was this unlucky when it came to practices, how bad were actual dates going to be? He didn't know how he was going to make it up to Hermione because was going to be so late.

.o0O0o.

With a _whoosh!_ the flames turned a vibrant kelly green and Hermione reflexively stiffened in her seat, only to relax again as a witch stepped out of the fireplace. At least she was no longer jumping up every time someone appeared like that. She had done it so often that the barman had come over to kid her about there being something wrong with his chair.

In the end the gap-toothed Tom had brought over a bowl of some surprisingly tasty oatmeal and a copy of the paper in an effort to keep her from scaring off his customers, though that was an obvious joke. She hadn't expected the owner of a place as dingy as the Leaky Cauldron to be so nice, but on the whole the entire establishment was very clean in spite of the optics. She supposed the dark atmosphere was more a product of dark wood, darker stains, a bad paint palette, and a severe lack of light than anything else.

The ash dust didn't help either, but that was mostly confined to where the new arrivals stood when they dusted themselves off. They always did so in the same spot, curiously enough; always the same spot roughly three feet from where they came out of the flames. Hermione wondered if that was something they were taught in order to avoid collisions or just something that had developed naturally.

In a way she wished she had stayed to see Harry leave, but in another she was glad she hadn't. What do you say to someone after you kiss them? It was much easier just to run away. Now though, she didn't have a clue about why he was late. Did he get lost and come out of the wrong fireplace, or did he just oversleep? She didn't want to think about what the other alternative could be; it was much more cheerful to think that he'd been kidnapped than to think he didn't want to come, which she found particularly strange.

Did she mess everything up by what she did yesterday? Harry had always seemed more – well, reserved – when it came to any sign of affection, physical or otherwise, but he hadn't seemed to mind the fact that she'd done it at the time. If anything, it was how he had relaxed when she'd hugged him while they were being held for questioning that had given her the confidence to do what she'd done afterwards.

She'd hate to think she had ruined everything by pushing him into something he was uncomfortable with. After she had forgiven her father for pranking her with that quill, and had told him more about Harry and his upbringing, he'd done his "official parental responsibility" by giving her a refresher course on the cycle of abuse and what that did to people. Even though what he'd said about the common behaviors of victims didn't seem to apply to him – despite being a victim of further bullying and running away from home, though his desire to please and his dislike of his fame being a reflection of low self-esteem could fit, she supposed – none of the warning signs that he'd continue the cycle were there at all.

Could there be some other sort of psychological issue at play that'd make him stay away? With a twist in the pit of her stomach, she felt more than saw Harry curled up in his room petrified and panicking at the thought of getting close to someone only to lose them like he'd lost his parents. It was enough to make her want to rush off to find him, but could you use the fireplace when you didn't know where you were going? Ron's dad had called his place 'the Burrow,' but was that enough for her to get there to make sure he was alright?

Hermione took a breath and tried to calm herself; she was just worrying, there was no call to rush off just yet. Odds are that Harry had simply misremembered the time or overslept; it certainly wouldn't have been the first time. He and Ron had been late to their very first class last year and most weekends she'd had been down in the common room for hours before they'd made their way down for breakfast. It was just a case of boys being boys and failing to plan ahead; she could either harp on it until she drove him mad and he didn't want to see her anymore or she'd just have to get used to it and plan around it.

There was a _crack!_ from behind the Leaky Cauldron's closed front door and again Hermione wondered at why these people did what they did. If they could appear anywhere like that, why not Apparate exactly where you wanted to go rather than at the front door and walk in? Was there something that prevented them from doing so besides a residual sense of decorum? Waiting for Harry had certainly turned into an odd anthropological study.

She had a bit of trouble at not questioning the sanity of those in the wizarding world when Lichfield was the one to come through the door wearing a purple bathrobe, plaid "comfy pants" – as her father called them – a white tee shirt, and pink slippers. He waved nonchalantly to Tom before he saw her and stopped in his tracks. Glancing down at his outfit, he looked back at her and grinned before moving to the fireplace, throwing in a pinch of dust, and disappearing in a gout of flame and a shout of "Norwich!"

Was there some sort of wizarding dementia or sleepwalking that had them wake up in odd places? Hermione wished she knew where to start looking for that information but they were still just over two weeks away from being back at Hogwarts. She was definitely pursuing Harry's idea for a summer check-out program for the library as soon as they returned, initial joke or no.

The question remained though, if there wasn't a benign explanation for what just occurred, should she tell Harry about this? With his independence at stake, they were certainly putting a lot of faith in a man they barely knew, but if she told him it might break what confidence he had that they'd win. She'd ask her dad but even with their new-found openness about the wizarding world she wouldn't put it past him to ignore everything else and try to cram the car into the fireplace to make the journey home easier.

With yet another worry to occupy her time Hermione returned to the paper. Though she tried hard to concentrate, the combination of other worries, already knowing how shoddy Lockhart's books were, and knowing why the goblins had mysteriously closed their doors made it difficult to keep her mind occupied. Before long though she found that she no longer had reason to wait.

With a nervous wave of nausea she saw the blaze belch out her black-haired and bespectacled best friend. Her nerves disappeared as quickly as they'd come as he gave her an embarrassedly lop-sided chagrined grin that said he knew that he was late as he dusted off the ash of his journey. He used the same spot to do that as the rest of them. How could the person at the root of so many of her anxieties make them all disappear in an instant, even the ones he had nothing to do with?

Harry flattened his hair with his hand as he made his way over and Hermione chose to break the ice with the first topic that sprang to mind.

"You look… casual," she said, taking in the jeans and maroon shirt he wore, which were very much at odds with the stylish new wizarding shoes he had.

"Oh, yeah," he said embarrassedly as he sat across from her. "They're some clothes of Ron's that Mrs. Weasley let me wear. Madam Malkin has been nice enough to charm my robes the last couple times I've been here and I promised to come back and buy some real clothes, so I thought we'd start there," Harry said with a shrug.

She nodded. "In spite of what I said last night," Hermione admitted, "it's kind of strange to see you in normal clothes."

"It feels kind of odd too," he said, picking at his shirt. "I guess you can get used to anything. I'm sorry I was late, by the way," Harry said quickly. "It's been a rather bad day for Dobby."

"He's not dying, is he?" she asked hurriedly.

"Not from lack of trying," he said dryly. "First he fell like thirty feet to land on Ginny and then the Weasleys' enchanted car took him for a spin and tried to kill him," Harry explained. "The car got banged up pretty bad, but Dobby seemed fine. I didn't know if telling him to go easy or giving him something else to do would be better for him, so I just told him that he should leave anything magical alone from now on."

"Are either of you going to get into trouble for wrecking the car like that?" she asked as Tom placed a plate of fish and chips and a drink in front of Harry that she hadn't seen him order before departing with a wink. Come to think of it, she hadn't ordered her meal either.

Harry shook his head as he absentmindedly popped a chip in his mouth and ate. "Molly seemed rather relieved, actually," he said as if he couldn't believe it himself. "I guess she thinks having something to fiddle around with will keep Arthur from getting anything new. He's kind of mad when it comes to muggle things."

"Arthur and Molly?" she asked with a smile.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," Harry explained with a shrug. "She told me to call her Molly once, but they're Ron's parents and I'm living there, but they don't treat me like I'm one of their kids – more like a really young friend. It's kind of an odd thing to describe."

"Well, relationships can be rather elastic," Hermione said for more than one reason. "There's no need to rush off and define things right away. Take my dad," she explained, "sometimes he's the parent that has to weigh in with fatherly guidance, sometimes he's a friend to tell my problems to, and sometimes he's the annoying little brother," she finished exasperatingly.

"I can see how that could make things complicated," he said with a peculiar look. "I've just never had that kind of thing happen before."

"I'd suggest you just go with it and let things develop on their own before you label them," she said. "Who knows what the relationship with them could become in time. They might become parental figures or just really good adult friends you can talk to about things Ron or I might not be able to relate to."

"I doubt there's anything you wouldn't be able to relate to," Harry said, taking a drink.

"I just mean that you shouldn't turn down the possibility for more friends simply because you don't have a pre-established role to put them in."

"I guess you're right," he said finally. "It'd just feel weird to say it to her face, you know? It'd be like calling Professor McGonagall – whatever her first name is."

"Minerva," Hermione added before halting with an odd look on her face. "You're right, that doesn't feel right at all."

Harry chuckled and continued to eat.

"Thanks for ordering this, by the way. I didn't trust my stomach before the floo but I didn't realize how hungry I really was. You hungry?" he asked, offering to share.

"No, I already ate. And I didn't order it; Tom, the barman, just brought it over. I didn't order mine either – I wonder if we owe him anything," she said, looking over to the man in question who wandering around cleaning off the now-vacant tables with little waves of his wand.

"Oh, er – I should have enough to cover it, but with everything that happened yesterday I forgot to get more money out of the bank. But if there's one thing the goblins have taught me it's that you never know when you're getting your next meal," he grinned.

"Don't worry about it," the wandering Tom said with a wave as he passed close. "Watchin' your friend here's been entertaining me all morning," he said with an 'I-got-you' face at her to rival her dad's. "Jump-jump-jump-jump," he smiled, twitching his finger up-and-down at her rapidly.

Tom wandered away again, leaving her horribly embarrassed and wishing she had a book to bury her face in. Thankfully, Harry occupied himself with his food while she recovered her dignity.

"You never said why Dobby fell on Ginny," Hermione said once she thought she'd recovered enough.

Harry swallowed. "I'm not sure," he said lowering his voice as he went on. "We were talking about whatever it is that the Malfoys are plotting. Dobby still couldn't say much; the only thing I know is that it has nothing to do with Voldemort–"

Hermione felt a sudden sense of doom at that, before reminding herself that it was pointless to fear a name. No one freaked out and fell on the floor over Stalin or Pol Pot. Doing the same over who you meant when you said 'You-Know-Who' was just a silly learned response it'd be best to unlearn.

He finished his last chip before continuing. "Anyway, I asked if there was anything he could do to stop it and he disappeared – only the next thing I hear is him falling, so I rushed downstairs to find him on the floor and Ginny just getting back to her feet."

"But what happened?" she asked confused.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "I thought that perhaps he can't go back to the Malfoy's since I, er – kind of own him now. He said something about it feeling the same as it did there. But then again, Ginny was sitting on top of something called a wardstone, which Mrs. Weasley said is supposed to be really magical."

"And really rare," Hermione said.

"You've heard of them?"

"Of course, they're mentioned in _Hogwarts, a History_. They're one of the main reasons the school is said to be one of the safest places in Britain – the school is surrounded by them, more than any other place in the country. The entire area is protected by them."

"But what do they do?" he asked, suddenly curious.

"I don't know," Hermione said, sharing his curious excitement. "But they're one reason I'm looking forward to taking Ancient Runes and Arithmancy next year – Well, the year after this upcoming one," she clarified. "If we're interested in something, I don't see why we should have to wait until Third Year to begin learning."

"From what I saw at the Weasley's, what you can do with them looks really interesting," he said with a gleam in his eye. "They've got this clock that tracks every member of the family at the same time, and that has to be how racing brooms are made."

"Maybe that's why he couldn't find out what the Malfoys were up to," she said quickly, mind whirling to make connections between things.

"Wait – what?" Harry asked confused. "You mean the clock, or the wardstone?"

"It could be both. If it's old and rare, I could see the Malfoys having a wardstone, even if it's just to brag about it. And even if they don't, perhaps the sheer amount of magic in a magical household prevents Dobby from being able to tell the difference between one house and another. Hm, I wonder if that's the reason house-elves don't want to leave," she said curiously. "Maybe it's the magic in the house – not the people – that they need to survive."

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Oh, sorry," she said chagrinned. "My dad and I were talking about house-elves last night, trying to figure out why they were the way they were. We managed to come up with a bunch of theories to go on but neither of us knows enough to come up with anything definite. And then Mipsy turned up to add her own complications."

"You met Mipsy?" Harry asked with a grin.

"Yes," she smiled, "She said 'Mister Lichy' sent her over because 'she deserves more work than he can give her.' She calls me 'Miss Knee.'"

"She called me 'Mister Hairy Pots-sir,'" he said, starting to chuckle.

"How do you grow hair on a pot?" Hermione asked, cheeks coloring.

"That's what George asked," he smiled. "I said I must be some kind of Chia Pet."

She started to giggle. "Is that supposed to be better or worse than a teddy bear with a scar?"

"I don't think I want to find out," Harry said with a shake of his head. He was still smiling though. "The last thing I need is these people making a line of children's toys about me."

Even laughing silently it took some effort to get herself back to a normal color. It felt strange being so relaxed around anyone; a good strange, but still strange. And it just wasn't right to laugh when talking tangentially about slavery.

"You ready?" she asked, gesturing to the remains of Harry's food. "Tom said that Professor McGonagall has a meeting room rented upstairs starting around noon so I figure we'd better get started."

"Right," Harry said, getting to his feet as she stood.

She smiled at Tom as they made their way to Diagon Alley proper. Things were going even better than they had yesterday. If the bank didn't kidnap them again, she might even consider this a date.

.o0O0o.

"Her entire sense of self-worth seemed wrapped up in how much work she could do," Hermione explained as she walked along beside him. "And she seemed really enthused at the thought of having more to do, but I can't say if that's their normal way of thinking or it's something she picked up somehow because she's never seen another of her own kind."

"She's never seen another house-elf?" Harry asked, wondering how that could be.

"I think so," Hermione admitted as they made their way down the street, "since she said that she didn't know what any other ones were like, but it was difficult to understand exactly what she meant sometimes. She really didn't seem to know anything about her kind at all, but she could've meant that she's never interacted with them on a regular basis. But you can see what I mean about it possibly being cultural; how she thought of herself was very different to what Dobby thought of himself."

"You mean how excited he was at being worth more than shoes," he nodded.

"Exactly," she said, "I'd be interested in seeing else I can find out about them, but anything I do find would probably be unreliable at best."

Hermione paused by the door to Madam Malkin's.

"Did you start here and then go to the bank, or vice versa? With the bank being closed yesterday there might be a line."

"As much as I feel out of place in this," he said, picking at shirt again, "I don't know if I have enough money for all the clothes I need. And it shouldn't take long; I'm just going to grab a sack of money and leave as fast as I can."

"If I didn't know how frustrated you were with all things Gringotts, I'd think you were bragging," she said, nudging him as they started off again.

"I swear, if Barchoke or Lichfield mention investments again I think I might scream," Harry said earnestly.

"If they talk about business at all today, I may just join you," she agreed.

"I still feel bad about your dad having to spend so much money on your things this year," Harry admitted as they continued. "It's not right."

"It's not your fault, Harry," she said from beside him. "While I agree it's excessive, my father made a horribly offensive joke and he's learned his lesson. I'll be doing my own banking from now on."

"Still," Harry pressed, "if it wasn't for me, he never would've been in a position to make that joke to begin with, so I should shoulder some of the blame."

"You can't hold yourself responsible for his actions," she said with a shake of her head.

"But I can for Barchoke and Lichfield," he countered. "They're looking after my finances, so that means they work for me and they were there to meet me. If it wasn't for that, you and your dad would've been at a teller and he would've spent a third of what he did. The least I can do is make up the difference."

Hermione's eyes popped. "I can't take that much money from you."

"Why not?" Harry shrugged. "Better for you to use it for robes and books than for it to just sit there waiting for them to add more to it."

"Grangers can pay their own way," she said, her face set stubbornly.

"It lets me pay you back for that breakfast then," he said, trying to come up with a reason she might accept.

"That breakfast was free," she said primly. "And if it wasn't, there's no way it would've been that expensive. Besides, you invited me to the meeting with the Hopefuls later, so there's a free lunch to repay the free breakfast."

"Well the whole point of your dad meeting Barchoke was to get a better exchange rate," Harry reminded her. "But it turned into five for the galleon, five for the insult, and five to keep doing his banking with them. He's not doing his banking with them anymore and you are, so at least let me reimburse you for that part then."

"It's still too much," she said, shaking her head. "While I don't agree to the extent they took it to, it was my father's mistake and my father's lesson to learn."

"And I learned my own lesson from it," he told her.

"What's that?" she asked, looking at him curiously.

"If you want to keep your sanity, use a teller."

In spite of herself, Hermione cracked a grin.

"Fine," she said, with an exasperated look and a bit of a roll to her eyes that it didn't look like she really meant. "But just this once."

Harry smiled.

As they got closer to the bank the crowd got thicker, and soon people were standing still. Harry took her hand and guided her along, making use of their small stature to wriggle through areas on the edges to get a better look.

The wide steps in front of the bank had been roped off, channeling the crowd into the one break in the line. The steps themselves had changed too, the first three or four being merged together at the same height to form a platform with tellers; in front of that was a broken line of guards in scarlet and gold to keep things orderly. They were wearing something that looked like the heavy duty protective gear that Ron had showed him in _Quidditch Through the Ages_ that the Gryffindor captain, Oliver Wood, hated using because he said it slowed them down.

No one was at the tellers though; all eyes seemed to be on the short squat woman in a pink cardigan and the suited goblin she was addressing. Harry remembered seeing him at the questioning the day before but had never gotten his name. The one he was more concerned about was the goblin whose name he did know, Gutripper, who was standing by the doors and surveying the scene with his one good eye.

"I'm afraid that is quite out of the question," the suited goblin said diplomatically, addressing the crowd more than the woman. "The entire senior staff was unanimous in this regard. Due to the ongoing security concern, the bank doors will remain closed to all but Gringotts employees on official business and only deposits, transfers, account creation and the issuance of cheques will be processed until the issue is resolved. Anyone wishing to speak to their Account Manager may do so by appointment. I'm sure you can see how this set up is best for all involved," he ended with a smile that he actually seemed to mean.

"Hem-hem. Perhaps I did not make myself clear," the squat witch said in a sugary girlish voice that focused attention on her again. "I am Delores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and these conditions will simply not do at all. These people have the right to their vaults–"

"I am well aware who you are, Miss Umbridge, having spent quite a bit of time at the Ministry myself," the suited goblin said, his hospitality seemingly strained for the moment, though his smile never faltered. "And while we at Gringotts understand the underlying feeling behind those words, I must remind you that the vaults belong to Gringotts itself. The access that these good people pay for is a long-term lease and carries with it terms of use that govern that access, in accordance to Ministry banking laws, guidelines, and strictures. I can provide you with a copy of them if you wish."

"This is ridiculous," the squat woman said, looking very much like an angry toad, "I demand that you open those doors this instant! The Ministry has the right to know what is going on."

With that, Gutripper moved forward and Harry instinctively moved Hermione further back into the doorway behind them. Her hand tightened on his, but whether for comfort or in preparation to pull him away if things turned violent was anyone's guess; probably both. A hand on one suited shoulder stopped the other goblin from responding and had him move aside so that he shared the front part of the platform with the scarred and half-blind Overseer who was clothed in armor like the others, though scuffed and without the colors.

"You are in no position to demand anything from us," Gutripper said tersely, his red eye seeming to shine as it caught the light. "Our bank, our vaults, our rules. If you continue to cause a disruption then you will be removed."

"The Ministry–," the toad started again, much less friendly this time around.

"–Has repeatedly acknowledged Gringotts as the sovereign domain of the Goblin People."

"That can be changed!" the toad croaked in frustration as she glared up at the Overseers like they were a pair of particularly plump flies hovering maddeningly out of reach.

"As can Senior Undersecretaries," Gutripper said with a malicious grin, showing a full line of pointed goblin teeth.

"A threat against me is a threat against the Ministry," the squat woman said, drawing herself up to her full, though diminutive height. "We'll see what the Minister thinks of this."

"Good," Gutripper said with a hard look. "And while you're there you can tell him that our representative will see to him shortly. I'll make sure he uses small words and goes slowly since Ministry personnel obviously have difficulties understanding what they are told."

With her face an angry shade of red that'd put Uncle Vernon to shame, the toad-faced woman turned and snapped at those around her until they made way for her to get through. She seemed particularly unpleasant.

"Have a good day, Miss Umbridge!" the suited Overseer said to her retreating back and Harry thought he saw the guards and tellers both standing a bit straighter after the exchange.

With one last look around the assembled crowd, Gutripper stalked back into the bank through one slightly open door leaving the other Overseer to handle the crowd. From his reputation, Harry was surprised that the woman was able to waddle away from the encounter, though she had kept herself on the far side of the rope away from them and tried to keep things on an official level even when making her threats, so perhaps she hadn't been in their 'sovereign domain.'

"Now," the remaining Overseer said, addressing the crowd once again. "Anyone wishing to create an account should see the teller on the–"

"Why would they keep anyone from going to their vaults," Harry asked Hermione, pitching his voice low so as not to be heard. Something about what that Overseer had said was tugging at the back of his mind but he couldn't remember what it was. He was beginning to think his brain had been stuffed with too much information and now it was starting to leak out again. This didn't bode well for school.

"It must be about _yesterday_," she said meaningfully, her voice pitched low as well. "Think about it, the magical world runs on hard currency: gold, silver, and bronze. If there's a question about the value of them–"

"They'd shut the doors and want to get all the money out of circulation as fast as possible so that people don't go nuts and pull all their money out and cause all sorts of havoc," Harry said, catching on.

"And if they're worried about... an alternative method of procuring one specific denomination," Hermione said, trying very hard not to say 'someone making gold.' "They'd want to stockpile as much of that as they can to see how big the problem could be. Non-magical treasuries have a rough idea about the amount of currency in circulation. If what they have is greater than what there should be–"

"–Then they know they have a problem," Harry finished for her.

Made up more by spectators drawn in by the possibility of a confrontation than any real need to do their banking, most of the crowd had broken up by then, leaving only a short line on their side of the rope.

"Follow me," Hermione said, letting go of his hand. It was only when it was gone that he realized how soft her hands were.

The goblin on the far right had no one in front of him, even though there were more than enough people waiting in line. Stepping over the rope brought them no added attention from the guards; Harry was sure they were being watched since they had first started to move. The teller in question looked flustered for a moment, perhaps because he looked younger than the others, his hair a solid black rather than a dappled gray or white.

After shuffling through some papers for a moment the teller brought up a magnifying glass in front of his face – which promptly disappeared, the glass showing exactly what was underneath his skin. They both jumped in alarm, Hermione's hand finding his again.

"Oh, sorry," the goblin murmured, taking the glass down and spinning it around before peering at them through it again. Harry didn't want to know what it was he was seeing.

As they recovered from their shock, the goblin put down the magnifying glass and produced a clipboard, flipping through several pages before finally stopping and looking at him.

"I am showing that cheques have already been issued for your account, Mister Potter, did you need more or–," he glanced to their joined hands, "did you wish to set up a joint account?" the goblin asked as if desperately trying to remember how to set one of those up.

"Er – no," Harry said, his hand springing from Hermione's to flatten down his hair. That's what he had forgotten; Barchoke had sent him cheques almost two weeks ago and he had promptly stuck them in his desk and left them there.

"I'm the one that wants an account," Hermione said primly before fishing out a small sack of money and placing it on the goblin's desk.

The young goblin looked at her again. "Aren't you rather young for a human?"

"Yes, but I'm old enough to manage my affairs on my own without a magical guardian," she replied.

"I think there's an extra form for that," the goblin muttered to himself before looking for the required documents.

Even with him helping to explain things, it took a bit of time to walk Hermione through the overly particular legal process. She didn't like the idea of a Blood Quill at all, though once he explained its place as a security measure against fraud – and the goblin saying it would only be required once unless she specifically stated otherwise for added account security – she began to see it as a rather sophisticated way of doing things.

The next snag happened when Harry tried to transfer money from his account into hers to try and pay her back for her father being charged extra; she kept trying to lower it again. He maintained that the roughly twenty galleons she had deposited should have cost him one hundred pounds, but instead had cost him three hundred. Even if she refused to allow him to reimburse all of the extra cost, she had agreed to him reimbursing one hundred pounds of it, which at a normal rate would double her money.

"But you said you'd only be reimbursing for five pounds of the exchange rate," she said stubbornly. "If the rate had been ten instead of fifteen, three hundred pounds would've gotten thirty galleons, meaning it should be ten you give me, not twenty."

"And if you take a third of the original muggle money and use the original exchange rate of fifteen then he only owes you six and two-thirds," the teller added helpfully. "Tell me, do all humans not like money? Because they seem to think it's just you," the goblin said, pointing to his right.

They glanced over to see the nearest two tellers were staring at them like they'd never seen humans before. Harry found his voice before Hermione did.

"Ten's fine," he said sheepishly, filling out the transfer form before she could start arguing for six.

It wasn't long before they were able to leave. Hermione had opted not to use a Blood Quill but only a magical signature, though she insisted that her chequebook should include a small ledger so she could keep track of expenses herself.

"Do you need to go back to the Leaky Cauldron so you can pick up your cheques, or do you just want to get started?" she asked as they made their way back down the street. "From what I remember, I should have more than enough to cover you if you run out, even if you go mad at Madam Malkins. Then we could double back when we're done and you could reimburse me."

"But if we did that, you'd try to talk me down again so it'd be like I hadn't given you any money at all," he replied with a smile. Harry figured he hit pretty close to the mark when she didn't have a response so he just went on. "If Dobby were here–"

With a _pop!_ the elf in question appeared before them, causing them to have to quickly stop or run over him. Harry couldn't help but notice the smudge on the pillowcase he wore and his face as Dobby handed him his chequebook and Blood Quill.

"Er – thank you," he said as he pocketed the book.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked, obviously concerned with Dobby's health.

"Oh, yes, Miss," Dobby nodded. "Dobby is cleaning the attic now. Dobby found a ghoul, sir," he said with a smile.

"A ghoul?" Hermione asked in shock.

"Does Harry Potter want Dobby to remove it?"

"Er – Just ask Mrs. Weasley what she wants done with it," Harry said, knowing that if anyone would be open to even considering getting rid of the noisy thing that banged the pipes above Ron's room it would be her. Arthur would probably let it stay there for the rest of his life.

"I hope you're being careful," Hermione said to the elf. "We don't want you hurt again."

Dobby's eyes darted to Harry, as if her prompting wasn't nearly enough for him.

"Yes, Dobby, do be careful," he agreed.

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby will be careful," the elf said energetically.

"Were you listening to us the entire time?" Harry wondered.

"Oh, no sir!" Dobby said, his eyes bulging. "Not all the time, sir. Dobby's old family didn't like Dobby to always be seen, so Dobby had to listen to know what was needed," the elf explained. "Did Dobby do something wrong?" he asked, his hands twitching anxiously as if he wanted to twist his ears.

"Absolutely not, Dobby, you're a very good elf," Harry said though he did have a bit of unease about the prospect of anyone overhearing what they say. "We'd just like a bit more privacy than that," he admitted. "Can I just call you when I need something?"

"Oh, yes, Harry Potter," the elf nodded, "Dobby can be doing that. Does Harry Potter need anything now?"

"No, Dobby, we're fine," Harry said, prompting the elf to _pop!_ away with a smile.

"Having someone wait on me like that," he said with a shake of his head, "that's going to take some getting used to."

"Having to get used to that possibly being a good thing is going to be the difficult part for me," Hermione said with a peculiar look on her face.

His relationships had certainly become a lot more interesting.

.o0O0o.

Madam Malkin's looked different than she remembered; smaller, though strangely less cramped with different colors of cloth. Though almost two years of growth could change perceptions like that, the store now seemed predominated by what she called Hogwarts Black, the more traditionally muggle type of clothes that went underneath, and the various accessories in House colors. The more colorful robes she saw the last time she was here were pushed aside for the start-of-term shopping blitz.

The witch she remembered as Madam Malkin looked up when Harry entered and quickly gave him a bemused and exasperated look. She gestured to his hand-me-downs with a bit of a grin as she made her way over.

"If you've come here to charm me into charming those old things–," the woman cut herself off when she saw her. "Oh, you brought your friend as a peace offering," she said with a smile, giving her a quick wink to let her know she was just ribbing him. It gave her an oddly squirmy feeling to know that he had mentioned her; she didn't know if she was nervous of any interest going public in case it failed miserably or was pleased that he reciprocated.

Harry, still unused to having anything other than cursory relations with people he didn't know very well, looked embarrassed. "Er – Yeah, this is Hermione."

Making a snap decision, Hermione decided to take the onus on herself for keeping this from becoming awkward. "I was wondering," she said, a bit more professionally than she'd intended, "do you take in your old robes in order to resell them second hand?"

"There's a shop down the way that sells second hand robes, but not here, we don't," the shopkeeper said as if unsure what she thought of her. "Then again," she continued, her eyes flickering to Harry, "we don't do temporary alterations either, but who doesn't have a soft spot when it comes to him?"

If there was one thing she could have said to make them both embarrassed, that was it.

"Did you want to go somewhere else?" Harry asked with a bit of a croak.

"No," Hermione said with as much dignity as she could as she fought to get the bit of color back out of her cheeks. "I was just wondering where to take my old things to help those in need."

"Oh, I never thought of that," he said.

She could almost see his brain divert itself away from embarrassment towards safer territory. She wished hers worked that quickly when it came to that; it'd make living with her father a much easier thing to do.

"I should do that too," Harry said finally. "It'd save me from running back here the next time I pick the wrong shirt."

Hermione could see how he'd managed to charm Madam Malkin in the first place, and it was better because he did it without even realizing. If she didn't know any better she'd say that was purely self-deprecating humor, and there may be a bit of that, but a lot of it was clearly rooted in his own natural humility – perhaps even the belief that he wasn't good enough; picked up from the Dursleys, no doubt. Careless adults really could mess with your head; if it hadn't been for her dad she might've been as bad as he is, not that she was far from to be honest.

"Business is slow today, thanks to that whole ordeal with the bank," Madam Malkin said as she looked them up and down taking mental measurements. "I could take them by if you've got them handy, assuming you don't want them to become collector's items that is," she said to Harry with a grin.

"No," Harry said with a scowl, "That wouldn't help anyone at all."

"Well, we'll get you sorted out," she said with a wave. "Marjorie?" she called. After a moment she looked towards the back of the shop, "Marjorie? Oh, where is that girl?" she muttered to herself as she marched towards the back. "If she's mooning over that boy at Quality Quidditch Supplies–"

"It isn't mooning if you've already got a date," a curly-haired girl a bit older than them said as she appeared from the doorway Madam Malkin was approaching. "Besides, you said I could find something to wear. He's taking me somewhere muggle," she smiled.

"Oh, look! Cutie's back," Marjorie said with a wink to Harry, making him blush and look elsewhere. "You want me to take him?" she asked her boss with a look that said it wouldn't be a chore at all.

"Only if you want to be single _and_ unemployed," Malkin said with a look.

Her assistant returned the look with a shrug that said that might not be that bad of a trade, which Hermione thought was going a bit too far.

"You take her," Malkin said, gesturing to Hermione before coming over to shepherd Harry away.

She followed behind them quickly, wondering if taking Lichfield's advice and buying a Beater's bat wouldn't be a bad idea after all.

"You sell muggle clothes here?" Harry asked as she took her place on a stool near his in front of a large mirror.

"Just a bit so people don't make fools of themselves in public – not that it helps any," Madam Malkin said as she pulled out a black Hogwarts robe that looked like it'd fit him. "Some people seem to take pride in not knowing anything about muggles; they go out in all sorts of things."

"Like a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers?" Hermione asked curiously, drawing an odd look from Harry.

"I've seen a rather large wizard go out in a muggle woman's nightdress without an ounce of shame," Malkin said with a shake of her head. "Nearly had to Obliviate that memory away just to get to sleep."

Harry peeked over at her as Malkin and her assistant helped them into outer robes.

"Do I even want to know why you asked that?"

"You should ask that _old_ friend of yours over lunch today," she said meaningfully though what Harry thought of that she couldn't say.

"Do you have any clothes for daily wear?" he asked Madam Malkin as Marjorie started pinning Hermione's robes to the right length.

"You want them like this or those full robes the Ministry types like where you don't wear nothing but your nickers?" she asked, mortifying Harry again.

Hermione tried to stifle her reaction to that but Harry couldn't help but notice.

"I meant normal clothes," he said with a reddish twinge to his face.

"That maroon looks good on him," Marjorie noted from her place by Hermione's knees. "It goes with his red face; might be a bit much for a full robe though," she admitted with a smile.

With a tap of her wand, Madam Malkin changed the robe he was wearing from black to maroon. It was indeed too much maroon, with or without his blush.

"Green might look nice on him," Hermione said, not really knowing if she meant to save him or not.

"Oh, I could see that," Madam Malkin said, changing his robe to a nice green. "Or maybe…"

With a wave the robe became a bright green that shimmered at the slightest movement, the light glinting off it made him look like he were strewn with tinsel. Harry put up a brave front but if he got any more embarrassed his face would look like the bright star on top of a Christmas tree.

"Isn't that a bit… flamboyant?" Hermione asked, finally coming to the rescue.

"Have you seen what Dumbledore wears? Now that's flamboyant," Malkin said, drawing Harry's face down in a scowl again. "Great wizards can get away with a bit of flamboyancy."

"Well Harry's not like that," she said, mirroring Harry's discontent at how this was now going.

"It is a bit much," Malkin agreed, changing it back to the darker flat green. "That could work well for normal wear."

"I look like a Slytherin," he groused, reminding her of something she wanted to talk to him about, though not in front of others.

"You don't have to be a Slytherin to like green," Marjorie said. "I was in Ravenclaw and it's my favorite color. I'm certainly not going to let them ruin it."

Harry grunted in reluctant acceptance of that, making her wish there was something she could do to lighten his mood.

"Arms out, you two," Madam Malkin said as they began to fiddle with their sleeves.

Hermione noticed that their fingertips were less than a foot apart; if she could lean over just a bit… Harry must've seen her in the mirror because he glanced over, causing her to overbalance and almost go tumbling off the stool.

"Watch yourself," she saw Madam Malkin say as she looked forward into the mirror again. "You don't want to go falling head over heels now, do you? You'll find yourself pricked and then you could have a bundle of trouble," the woman said with a sly grin.

Hermione felt her face redden and her only consolation was Harry looked a little confused rather than equally mortified. She was glad she'd left her dad back at the Leaky Cauldron; this was not supposed to be 'Pick on Hermione Day.'

After a moment she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye in the mirror. Looking at it she noticed that Harry seemed to have a little bit of a lean. Her eyes darted to find his in the mirror only to see his flicker away to examine the sea of black robes around them. He did gain a bit more of a lean towards her though.

Trying to seem casual, though she knew the ladies around them wouldn't fail to notice, Hermione slanted herself ever so slightly, using the horribly inaccurate depth perception from the mirror to guide her way. She felt her fingertips meet his and couldn't help but feel a warm tingly feeling as a small smile grew on her lips. She didn't look at Harry, but she didn't need to; that little bit of him was all she needed.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** With my best friend a couple thousand miles away for the rest of the summer learning Classical Tibetan (true story, unfortunately he doesn't get to do so with a view of the Himalayas after the earthquakes in Kathmandu but… Portland's better than nothing), I should have more time with nothing else to do but write. I'm not promising things will come faster, but I can always hope.

Anyway, thanks for reading.


	21. Strategy Guide to Doctor Robotnik

**AN:** I'm not usually one to quote the movies since I consider them to be on the level of fanfiction anyway (though less so for the first two, which are much closer to the tone of the books), but there are two quotes that I've included in this chapter because they help to highlight a certain dimension in a character's development.

.o0O0o.

"That should be you done," Madam Malkin said from behind Harry as she carefully removed the pinned robe from his shoulders. "If you step over here we can find your other things while I get these robes ready for you."

Hermione felt the touch of his fingertips leave hers and watched in the mirror as he followed the shopkeeper to disappear around a corner, leaving her with Marjorie. The older girl glanced at her and shook her head.

"Merlin, you've got it bad, don't you?" the curly haired girl asked as she removed the unfinished robe from Hermione's shoulders.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said stuffily.

"There's no use denying it, I'm the one mooning over Quality Quidditch Supply-guy, remember?" Marjorie said with a slight smirk. "I know another mooner when I see one, and I never said it was a bad thing," she winked. "You go on and step into the changing room and I'll pass you some odds and ends to see what fits," the girl said with a gesture.

Hermione's first thought was to say that it was none of her concern as she walked into the changing room; that would put more of a professional distance between them. When she looked to where the girl had gestured though all she saw was a rack of robes.

"She always over orders," the assistant said with a huff and an instant later the rack disappeared, revealing a door large enough for privacy but small enough to hand clothes back and forth. "There we go," the curly haired girl said with a smile and holding the door for her. "You nip in there and I'll get you sorted out."

Hermione went inside and tried not to stew on the fact that the moment being gone and girl being nice to her meant she couldn't be as prickly as she wanted to be to back her away without looking overly mean. She turned to see a full length mirror and felt her blood run cold as she saw her mother scowling back at her. She knew at once that she'd made a mistake – her mother didn't have hair like that – but that didn't make the shock any less. With wobbly legs, Hermione sat on the small seat the room had as she waited for her stomach to come back up from the floor.

Her father had always said that she looked just like her mother when she was mad but this was the first time she had gotten a blast of it herself. She'd always thought it was just a joke he told when she was frustrated with him, one of his ways of prodding her into being less Puckle and more Granger; now she knew they were scarily similar. It wasn't her mother's full force Inhuman Scowl of Disapproval, just the look she had when she'd had enough of mankind for a while, but she hadn't expected to be the one giving it.

_"You're really scary sometimes, you know that? Brilliant, but scary,"_ Ron had said the night she'd put Neville in the Full Body-Bind, and she hadn't even been mad at the time.

How many times had she been irritated, annoyed, or scowled at them last year? She didn't even know where to begin with her estimate since it seemed to happen at least once or twice a week. Had she looked like that every time, or were some of them even worse?

_"She's a nightmare, honestly. No wonder she hasn't got any friends."_ Ron had said that about her too, but it described her mother to a T. She hadn't thought of it at the time, she'd been too focused on it being a death knell to her ridiculous delusion that in coming to the wizarding world she'd find people like herself to make the connection.

There was only one person that was really like her in that regard: her mother. She'd been so determined to become just like her when she was younger that in the end she had – and no one wanted to be around her. She was astonished that her father put up with her mother long enough to get married, let alone stay married. The man had the patience of a saint and it was a miracle that Harry reciprocated her interest in the slightest if that's what he had to deal with more often than not.

No wonder she'd been doing everything she could to irritate and harass her mother this summer, she was everything about herself that she'd grown to hate, everything that made other people hate her and made life difficult – except for school, well, homework and test-taking to be precise. If you focused on those two areas alone then being like her mother was a good thing. She had nearly encyclopedic knowledge on anything she was interested in – it was like she had the Internet in her head, but with much faster dial-up – the drawback was that when dealing with people she was absolutely dreadful.

Using other people as the norm, something had to be wrong with her mother. Hermione had always called her a robot – and in many ways she was – but that was because for all the words she had, for all the ones she'd researched and knew how to spell, she didn't have any words to describe her mother better than that one: robot. If she only had a name for what it was besides that then perhaps living with her wouldn't be so bad, but as it was…

"Here you go," Marjorie said, passing over a few uniform shirts to hang on a hook on the door. "Try those on and tell me which one fits. And which of these is yours?" she asked, dangling two ties over the door: one the black and yellow of Hufflepuff, the other the blue and bronze of Ravenclaw.

"Neither, I'm a Gryffindor," Hermione said as she got to her feet and removed her shirt to try the others on.

"Really?" the girl asked, genuinely surprised. "The Houses really do take in all kinds, don't they?" The ties whipped back over the door.

As she tried on the first shirt Hermione wondered for a moment what the other Hogwarts Houses actually thought of each other. Stereotypes were rife, of course, but just because every Slytherin they've interacted with has fit the mold of 'evil in training' doesn't mean they all actually were. If Harry's grandparents really turned out to have been in Slytherin she didn't see how that could be the case.

As a House they were supposed to be ambitious and cunning, though Malfoy's only ambition seemed to be to swim through a bin of his father's money like a billionaire duck and he had all the cunning of a brick wall. And she knew that not all Gryffindors were brave and true knights in shining armor standing up for what was right, even if it was hard.

If Dumbledore himself wasn't enough evidence of that, one of the worst sorts of people she'd ever heard of came not from Slytherin but from Gryffindor. Betraying a lifelong friend and their family to their deaths for your own personal gain was a horrible thing to do, but that's precisely what Sirius Black had done and it was only by chance that Harry had survived at all.

The first shirt was quickly discarded for being too short though looking at her ill-named training bra it wasn't as snug as she'd hoped. Hermione knew that she shouldn't care about her appearance; she should be judged on her own merits based on what she could do, not who she was, who her parents were, or what she looked like. That didn't stop there from being this other element as well simply because she thought it shouldn't be there.

It also didn't help that the other girls were the ones so often doing the judging, like it was some sort of race and if you weren't speeding to the finish line at all times then you were dead last and failed by default. By the end of the term Lavender had already started doing "exercises" to enhance her bust, spurred on by Susan Bones of Hufflepuff being an early bloomer. Only Parvati thought it might help.

Intra- and intersexual selection she had learned it was called, when she'd finally gotten the courage to ask her mother for a bra this summer – not that she really needed it at the moment when they wore a sweater over their shirts as a part of their uniform. Either way it was something she didn't think her father would be able to handle – especially not after hearing about Harry. As frustrating as doing anything with her mother was, sometimes there were benefits to how clinical she could be about things.

It didn't soothe matters at all though to learn that in some ways they really were engaged in that kind of competition. Human beings, both males and females, had evolved to judge the fitness of themselves and each other based on their appearance and perceived desirability as mating partners, and fighting against two hundred thousand years of that evolution purely because you think it shouldn't be that way was only going to have a nominal effect at most.

While her mother's sentiments helped form many of the building blocks for her notions of gender equality, they were equally good at knocking holes in them again. Hermione supposed her mother would call that 'realism'; she called it disappointing.

Still, she tried to remind herself that if appearances were really all that important then there wouldn't be a witch or wizard that didn't look like supermodels, but if altering your appearance like that was something they hadn't even thought of – like having a tag in your clothes with standard sizes or paying for postage – then she certainly wasn't going to give them the idea. Then she'd be the one responsible for everyone having to keep up the charade or be ostracized, and she'd go from being about average-looking to the ugliest girl in the country overnight when she refused to go along with it.

The second shirt was better; a little loose, but it should be good enough to last the year, which would mean the third would probably feel like she was wearing a tent. She quickly removed it and retrieved her periwinkle top, putting the uniform shirts back on their hangers and handing them back over the door.

"You find one you like," Marjorie asked as she came over, "or did you need some more?"

"The second one's good," she answered.

"Did you need–?"

"No," Hermione quickly cut in, knowing there was only one thing that the curly-headed shop assistant that seemed to enjoy embarrassing people would ask about at that point.

"–Socks?"

That wasn't it. Lacking anyone to share a put upon look with she shared it with herself in the mirror. Jumping in to interrupt like that had let the girl play all innocent and turn the whole thing into an even bigger joke, though she had to admit that it was decent. Her father would've said 'free books' just to hear her torment when he agreed and said she probably had too many already.

"I've got some skirts for you to try," the girl said, handing them over, "and I've almost got your robes done. People usually go with three or did you want to go with four?"

"Four was too many last year," Hermione said as she scrutinized the skirts to see which seemed most likely to fit. "Even with all the abuse they went through I never had to use all four."

"The house-elves really do a great job up there, don't they?" Marjorie asked. "It was quite a change to graduate and suddenly have to see to my own things. That's one thing they don't teach you there."

"They have house-elves at Hogwarts?" she asked curiously, pausing as she slipped off her periwinkle espadrilles.

"Oh, sure, loads of them," the girl answered as she continued to make muffled noises from the other side of the door. "They're supposed to have the largest number of any place in Britain. All those times I tickled the pear between classes to nick food, I must've seen at least a hundred of them."

"I've never seen them," she said as she quickly shimmied into the chosen skirt to minimize the amount of time she'd be exposed if the door burst open by chance; it looked right on the hanger but turned out to be just a bit short. Looking in the mirror, Hermione thought that all those stairs at Hogwarts might have made her butt get bigger.

"Well, they must be busy," Marjorie explained. "The cooking and wash alone for a thousand kids or more is no easy job, then there's cleaning the classrooms, bathrooms, common rooms, and hallways once everyone's gone to bed – they must be having a blast up there, no wonder you can never find one that wants to leave."

Pulling up the next likely skirt, Hermione paused. Was work not just something house-elves needed to survive, but was it also fun: the harder the work the more fun they had? It didn't make any rational sense, but nothing about house-elves did.

"What do you mean, 'tickled the pear'?" she curiously asked as she buttoned up the skirt on one side; zippers were another thing these wizards could use.

"Oh, there's this stairway that leads down below the Great Hall," Marjorie said offhandedly. "Just tickle the pear in the bowl of fruit and you're right in the kitchens. Now if you go and gain weight, don't you go blaming me," she finished with a chuckle.

The second skirt worked. It was longer than she liked – several finger-widths below the knee – but she was sure her father wouldn't mind when he became the overprotective father; it was bound to happen at some point. Hermione took it off and got redressed.

"If you don't mind me saying so," the girl from outside said in a whisper that carried, "I feel like I should apologize for Aunt Maggie. We've all heard his story countless times so to us it feels like he's part of the family. I didn't want you to think we were picking on you since you got splashed with a bit of it."

"You mean Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Of course," Marjorie responded. "Aunt Maggie's always been a bit standoffish but now it looks like she's adopted him. If you'd asked me a month ago I'd've said he was like a little brother of mine that was always out of sight somewhere getting into trouble, but now that he's stopped by he's more like a young cousin that's fun to tease," she said with a smile that was obvious even through the closed door.

Hermione had known that Harry was famous and that everyone in the wizarding world knew his story, but she had never considered what that was really like. On the one side of the coin were those ridiculous bodice-ripper books, but on the other perhaps people empathized with him even when they didn't know him.

"So, why apologize for 'Aunt Maggie'?" Hermione asked, wondering who this third woman could be.

"Oh, you know – 'head over heels,' 'get pricked,' 'bundle of trouble'–"

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, suddenly catching on that it wasn't three but two. "'Aunt Maggie' is–"

"Miss Margaret Malkin, the maniacally mad madam of modifying, mending, and manufacturing modern magical material merchandise," she said succinctly.

Hermione paused while drawing on her shoes to look at the door as if she could see the girl beyond it.

"My dad plays that same silly game of aligning any articulation available to assume annoying alliteration," she said finally, her mind working furiously to figure out something that fit; it had always been much harder than she thought it'd be, doing that at the drop of a hat.

"Really?" the girl asked, genuinely surprised again. "Well your hair says you're muggleborn, but I wouldn't be surprised if you've got magical blood in you somewhere down the line. That's the theory anyway, isn't it?"

"You mean the possibility that muggleborns could have a real historical connection to the wizarding world?" Hermione asked as she came out of the changing room with the skirts in hand. "And how would my hair mark me out as a muggleborn?" she asked, glancing into the large mirror again to see what damage the clothes changing had done to her hair.

"That's certainly one way to say it, but it's not like anyone's ever proven it – or really looked into it," Marjorie said as she took the ill-fitting skirts back to their rack and returned with some extra changes of the one she wanted as Hermione tried to flatten her hair a bit.

"I don't think anyone's ever monitored what's happened to squibs when they went off into the muggle world," she said when she got back. "I think the Ministry thinks it's a kindness, letting them go off and try to forget about us and all. Anyway, it could be worse," Marjorie said darkly, "I heard some families used to off their offspring, the ones that couldn't..."

That topic made the feeling of the shop feel much less welcoming. Marjorie must've realized she put a foot wrong and busied herself folding and adding the skirts to the small collection of clothes she'd laid out, she even had socks. While she'd been trying things on it seemed like the older girl had spent her time shortening the outer robes to fit, collecting all the other uniform bits she needed with the right coloring, and arranging them almost as fastidiously as Hermione would have done.

Regardless of what 'some families' used to do, if the bank had been open – and it wouldn't be pushing their luck – she might've considered checking out that Latent Legacy Lineages thing that the goblin had mentioned yesterday, but as it was, she certainly didn't want to give them the chance to shanghai something that she may one day look back on and call a date.

"But as for your hair," the curly-haired girl said when she was done stacking the clothes as if there hadn't been a break in the conversation, "if you'd been raised in the wizarding world, someone would've told you about this already."

Out from her pocket came the girl's wand, which she pointed towards the register and small shelves of random goods beyond. "Accio Sleekeazy's," Marjorie said.

A green and blue bottle jumped off a shelf and flew at them as fast as a bullet. Hermione ducked out of the way just in time for it to slam into Marjorie's open hand; luckily it didn't break.

"Ow!" the girl gasped, transferring the bottle to her other hand and shaking the one she caught it with as if to lessen the pain. "I was always iffy with Summoning Charms," Marjorie admitted, handing the bottle over to her. "I could never get the power right."

_'Sleekeazy's Hair Potion &amp; Scalp Treatment,_' the label read, _'Suitable for all hair types. Unique results for gingers._'

"What does it do for gingers?" Hermione asked, the image of a bald and panicking Ron springing to mind.

"I never got a chance to find out," Marjorie said with a smile. "We tried to get one of the Weasley brothers to give it a go when I was in school, but neither of them was mad enough to try."

"Fred and George?" Hermione asked, wondering why those two wouldn't be up for trying anything at least once.

"No, Bill and Charlie," the other girl said with a curious look. "Just how many of them are there?"

"Seven," Hermione said after a quick mental check, "but one of them's a girl."

Marjorie shook her head in disbelief.

"Prolific breeders aside," the slightly wide-eyed shop assistant said as she went for a bag for her clothes, "If you go by what the instructions say on that, it'd end up taking hours and use most of the bottle, but if you mix about a quarter of it into your shampoo and give it a good shake every time before you use it – more if you want less curls than mine – it works just the same. Went through loads of that before I hit on that trick," she finished with a wink.

"Thank you," Hermione said, both for the potion and for the advice.

"Don't mention it," Marjorie said as she packed her things. "We wild-haired girls need to stick together."

Looking at the bottle that promised to put an end to all her hairstyle heartaches, if the advertising were true, Hermione began to think that she'd judged the older girl far too quickly. It seems as though in trying to acquire her mother's strengths she'd also taken on her weaknesses – she was far too judgmental and antisocial for her own good, and right after she had told Harry that he shouldn't turn away new friends too.

She had always prided herself on being practical, but here was an entire sphere of everyday-practicality that she never would've known existed had she pulled a Puckle and made Marjorie leave her alone. If she had, she would've been just like the other girl and left absolutely clueless about how to do things on her own once she graduated – unless she used non-magical means, of course.

It occurred to her that being such a Puckle, in itself, was a kind of narrow-mindedness that prohibited you from learning from others unless they adhered to your own particular views of how they should behave. Hermione would always keep her feet on the ground, that's who she was, but that didn't mean she had to yank everyone else down too.

True independence and difference from her mother wasn't going to be won through bon-bon bullets or cupcake cluster bombs, she saw that now. She'd been fighting to be something different but on the wrong front entirely. It would have to be done by being open-minded, friendly, and non-judgmental. Hermione only wished it didn't seem such a daunting task because she hadn't had any practice at doing that at all. It'd be much easier just to get her mother to swear.

.o0O0o.

Stepping out of the changing room, Harry resisted the urge to shake his leg or pick at the problem fabric just inside his pants. Magical underwear just wasn't going to happen as far as he was concerned; they were all baggy and had buttons or draw-strings, so it was like wearing small swimming suits under your clothes and probably would've been really uncomfortable unless you were wearing those 'full robes' Madam Malkin had mentioned.

The non-magical version she carried wasn't much better. She only had the one kind, something most like what older wizards would be used to, but they were loose too and had little legs on them. They weren't boxers, but they weren't briefs either; Harry didn't know what to call them except odd. They were uncomfortable too, bunching up in all the most awkward of places and even once you got them sorted out they still felt like they were about to do it again.

Still, he had needed them, and without any muggle money and no means to get around London on his own, Harry supposed they would have to do. He certainly wasn't about to go back to Gringotts just to get some, only to end up with them riffling through his memories or yammer on about investments and law until he missed yet another lunch. Opening an account for Hermione today had been bad enough.

His pants were a different matter. Though they were muggle, they weren't jeans; they looked like khakis... only black. Briefly Harry wondered how the Weasleys had gotten jeans for Ron in the first place, but then felt bad about wondering just how little money the family actually had. They'd been nice enough to take him in when he didn't have anywhere else to go and thinking of them that way was a poor repayment for that.

That was actually the reason he was going to donate his robes from last year in the first place. Ron was taller than him and they had already gotten their things for this year, but there's always next year and Ginny. He could afford to buy new things and donating his stuff meant there was cheaper options available for people who couldn't – as long as he kept his name out of it that is. Things might change for them if Mrs. Weasley did go for that job, but it was still good to help out.

He had decided not to go for green, at least not for his pants and robes only for his shirt, which was all of one color, the color Hermione had said would look good on him. Madam Malkin had managed to talk him into a darker forest green to wear later on for robes and pants once he had gotten used to the idea, just to try it out. She had offered him a discount and he thought it'd be rude to say no.

Everything he had ever worn outside of his Hogwarts clothes had always been drab and colorless – mostly blacks, grays, and whites unless they were Dudley's worn-out or ripped-up cast-offs – so he didn't really have a lot of experience being a person of color. _With_ color, Harry mentally revised; a person who wore color. He didn't know what it was like being a colorful person; that was better.

Even if he wore something like this every day he could it'd still probably take him until their first real date to work up to that, and that was still a year away. As much fun as being with Hermione has been, as well as it's been going, part of that was because this wasn't a date – it was practice.

Even though things had gotten rushed and fuzzy when he had asked her out, he was pretty sure that this was still not really a date. He had only been asking about Hogsmeade, he was pretty sure of that, so there was no doubt that Hogsmeade was the official start of things – unless he got sick and threw up all over her shoes, in which case he have to hope she felt sorry for him and let him have a mulligan.

Harry looked into the nearby mirror and tried to flatten his hair again as he debated whether he should tuck in his shirt or not. Whenever Aunt Petunia had made his cousin Dudley dress nicely she had always made him tuck it in and wear a belt. Madam Malkin didn't carry belts though out of fear that people would take them for ties and choke themselves; there were few enough wizards as it was, she said.

"Now there we are," Madam Malkin said appreciatively as she looked up from bagging his things. There were two bags full of clothes; Harry hadn't realized how much he must have been working Mrs. Weasley overtime. "When you asked for muggle things I must say I was rather doubtful, but that is a nice blend of the two."

Harry had to agree, and it seemed functional. The pants, socks, and odd underthings may have been muggle but they went well with the wizarding shoes and shirt, which was nearly indistinguishable from a muggle one except for not having a brand name or that annoying tag in the back.

The robe was basically nothing more than a long black light-weight jacket with pockets. Several pockets. It even had deep pockets inside the sleeves for some reason. He had decided against going with anything with a hood, and if he took the robe off entirely then he could easily blend in with a non-magical crowd.

"That should be you all sorted out," the shopkeeper said as she tallied up the bill again on a small notebook. "Now we can see if that new payment system the goblins had will work. You've got better things to do than spending all day talking to us," she said with a wink before turning to take the bags to the front.

Strangely, Harry didn't feel any embarrassment at that at all. As nice as they were, he really would prefer to spend more time with Hermione. Maybe all that embarrassment before had been a good thing; he supposed that it wasn't just clothes that you could get used to.

Harry fished out his chequebook and Blood Quill from Ron's borrowed jeans and stuck them in that odd sleeve pocket on one side and put what was left of his pocket money in the other. Besides the entire pocket itself sliding around when he moved his arms, it seemed to work fine. His wand he stuck in one of the normal pockets.

Hermione was already at the register when he turned the corner. The oddly squirmy nervous feeling in his stomach had died down a bit too, mostly leaving the desire to smile in its place, something he didn't see the need to fight since she had one too.

"You look nice," she said, causing him to stop and look down at his clothes again as if they might've changed in the last minute. "You know you don't have to wear green if you don't like it," Hermione said as if unburdening herself of some great weight. "Just because I think it looks nice doesn't mean you have to wear it."

"But I do like it," Harry said honestly.

A little bit of color was fine, it was just having it as an all-over kind of thing that made it seem odd. Hermione seemed on the verge of saying something else but must have figured that it'd be silly to press the issue in case he was being honest and ended up leaving it alone.

"I got her all written up here, and got her cheque, but didn't know what to do after that," the shop girl told Madam Malkin.

"Right. Now let's see if these goblins are as clever as they think they are," the older woman said as she pulled out a small silver serving dish and set it on the counter. "So I put that like this," she said as she walked through the new process. "And then I sign her cheque," Madam Malkin paused while she did just that. "And I set that on the tray and..."

Madam Malkin looked around a bit before she pulled out a small wooden-handle stamp with a metal bottom. With a firm hand she pressed down onto the cheque which disappeared in a small puff of smoke.

"Did I do it right?" the slightly wide-eyed shopkeeper asked, as if any of them had ever done this before.

"I think so," Harry said, remembering back when he had sealed his account and that bit of paper had done the same.

"Would we be able to get the cheque back if you didn't?" the curly-haired Marjorie asked curiously.

"Well I wouldn't want to walk all the way down there just to–," Madam Malkin started to say before another puff of smoke cut her off.

Two new pieces of paper had appeared on the tray.

"Let's see," Madam Malkin said as she scrutinized them both, looking back and forth between them as if to spot a difference. "This one's mine, I think, so this other must be yours," she said as she handed Hermione one of the bits of paper. She immediately tucked it into her little cheque ledger for later tallying, if she hadn't done so already.

"Well that was easy, wasn't it?" Madam Malkin said to Marjorie with a smile. "That's much better than walking down to the bank every day after we close up. They should have done this years ago."

She was as happy as a clam as she rung up his purchases and processed his check, though that could've been the amount of money she was making, which he took from the look on Hermione's face to be a lot more than hers was. Maybe it was a good thing they hadn't gone the reimbursement route after all. One weird thing though was that under remaining balance on his bank receipt it said, _"A lot: See Overseer Barchoke,_" which Harry had no intention of doing today at all.

Just as he was thinking about how he'd look carrying his bags around from place to place Hermione had a question. "When you said you'd 'call him,' what exactly did you mean?"

Somehow Harry knew what to do. He turned a bit to the side and looked where he imagined Dobby's head might stand and said, "Dobby!" and the little elf appeared with a _pop!_ He was incredibly dirty. His entire head was almost black and most of the pillowcase he wore was too; it made his bulbous eyes seem to pop out even more.

"What were you doing?" Harry asked curiously, trying to imagine how he could possibly have gotten so dirty so quickly.

"Dobby was cleaning the floo, sir!" Dobby's white teeth seemed to shine as he smiled.

"By climbing up it?" he asked with a grin of his own.

"Of course," Hermione said, and for a second Harry thought she was answering his question. "House-elves can hear their name."

She then turned to a spot near Dobby and called for an elf of her own; Mipsy appeared with another _pop!_ drawing a surprised look from the other elf.

"Good morning, Miss Knee," the chipper little elf said with a smile. "And you know Hairy Pots-sir!" Mipsy cried when she caught sight of him; she looked like she was about to explode with happiness.

The little elf then looked incredibly shy; whether it was from seeing the new people in the shop that she didn't know or what might be the first other elf she'd ever seen was hard to tell. Harry didn't know what the etiquette was for something like this but Hermione was willing to take a stab at it.

"Mipsy, this is Dobby, he works for Harry now," she explained to the elves who seemed preoccupied with looking elsewhere and only getting in the odd glance at each other with little smiles. "Dobby, this is Mipsy, she works for Mister Lichfield–"

"–And Miss Knee!" Mipsy added happily.

Harry caught a glimpse of a torn look on Hermione's face that said that she wasn't too sure what to think of this new development, though she hid it quickly under one of polite general concern.

"Um – hello," Dobby said with a little wave, even though the two elves were no more than two feet apart. He must've caught sight of just how dirty he was from wiggling his fingers on a nearly black hand. Dobby quickly hid the hand behind his back and looked down embarrassedly, only then to see the rest of what he was wearing.

While Dobby seemed on the verge of panic, Mipsy was chuckling silently behind her hand. With a gesture from her all the soot and grime on Dobby disappeared, leaving him with a recently-scrubbed look like he had gone through the wash. At the look on Dobby's face she couldn't help but giggle and Harry almost joined her. Now he knew why so many people liked to poke fun at two people who might become a couple, they were adorable.

Madam Malkin tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

"You know," she said with a pair of climbing eyebrows and growing smile, "I'm sure I can whip up a matching pair of his-and-hers pillowcases if you're interes–"

"I think that should be up to them," Harry said quickly. He might've bought him but the last thing he was going to do was dictate everything Dobby was going to do from here on out. He deserved to make that choice himself.

"Could you take these to my room for me, Dobby?" Harry asked him as he passed over his new bags of clothes. "And return these to Mrs. Weasley for me?" he said, adding the wadded up clothes he had come in. "After that I need all my old clothes brought here and given to Madam Malkin."

"Yes, sir, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby can do that." Dobby disappeared quickly, perhaps to prove that he was a proper house-elf after all.

"You are still willing to take them, aren't you?" Harry asked the woman in question.

"Of course not," Madam Malkin said primly. "I'll make her do it," she said, nodding to Marjorie. "I'll just credit what I get from it as a down payment on the next thing you two buy."

Harry thought that was nice of her – until Hermione had sent off Mipsy to do the same and he realized what she'd done. Madam Malkin had successfully made them have to come back for more robes if they ever wanted to use that bit of money, and then she'd try to continue the cycle. Still, it wasn't like he knew anywhere else to get clothes from, so it was a small price to pay to help others.

Mipsy returned first. Hermione probably had her clothes already set to one side or neatly folded in her trunk from last year; Harry didn't even know where his was, strewn all across the Burrow probably. When both had finally come and gone it was their humans' turn to take their leave.

The day had become slightly overcast, enough to shade their eyes but not enough to threaten rain. Harry nudged Hermione as they set off down the alley, taking her hand as he knocked her a little off balance. She gave him a surprised look at the sudden attack, until she realized what else he'd done, then she rolled her eyes a bit and gained a small smile; she did bump him back though.

"Did you want to visit your furry friend from yesterday," he asked, nodding to the Magical Menagerie.

"I'd like to but…," Hermione had a slightly disappointed look on her face before she brightened. "There is something I'd like to buy though," she said cryptically, as if she'd actually completed the thought. Shrugging off his… girlfriend's? …peculiarity, they angled their way over.

She smiled and squeezed his hand when he opened the door for them. The smell of confined animals filled the space inside, mostly cat and owl with maybe a hint of those little wood-chip shavings people use for hamsters.

"I won't be long," Hermione said before darting towards the back, though he saw her dawdle for a moment and duck down to poke a finger inside a cage he was willing to bet housed a certain squash-faced ginger cat.

Harry, meanwhile, made his way back to the corner they'd been in yesterday. This time he found the small snake lying out enjoying the bit of light that its leafy terrarium allowed. It saw him and started to move into the shrubbery when Harry spoke.

_"It's alright, I'm a friend,_" he told it.

The snake folded back along itself and lied there, watching him.

_"Could you coil yourself up into a ball again? That was neat._"

The black and blotchy-gold – ball python, the card by the tank said – seemed to consider his request for a moment before it started to move again, coiling its body around its head until it became quite compact.

"The shopkeeper had no idea what 'hypoallergenic' meant," Hermione said, walking up to him carrying a wicker basket.

"I don't think I know what 'hypoallergenic' means," Harry said, giving the basket a curious look. "Going on a picnic?"

"Maybe later," she said with a smile that was mix of 'I just outsmarted you' and 'I'm going to hold you to that' springing onto her face. "It means 'unlikely to cause an allergic reaction,' because apparently my mother's allergic to all things cute and cuddly."

"Well you should've known that," Harry said, feeling the desire to poke back a bit.

Hermione gave him a look that warned that he was getting closer to dangerous territory.

"It must be the reason you two don't get on," he said with a shrug.

Her look turned into one where she couldn't understand a thing that just happened; it was as if he'd suddenly grown antlers and spouted gibberish. He grinned and felt a bit of heat in his cheeks as he tried to look innocent. For a girl who was usually a step ahead of him on everything, Harry was starting to like moments like these.

"I don't think I've ever been called either before," Hermione said finally, still looking at him like he was getting ready to hit her.

"I didn't call you 'Either,'" he couldn't resist saying, "I called you–"

"–This one's yours," she cut in quickly as she thrust the basket into his arms. She was a little red-faced from embarrassment with a look that said she'd had quite enough of that nonsense, even if it wasn't unwelcome. Harry tried to hide his smile but wasn't making much headway at it.

She was obviously unused to getting a compliment. 'Cute' might be a matter of opinion but he supposed he couldn't really say she was 'cuddly' until he had experienced it for himself. He had liked her hugs though, so 'huggable' was definitely an adjective for her.

"It's mine?" he asked, giving her the conversational way out.

"Well, I should say it's Dobby's, because I bought it for him," she explained. "I didn't know what you were doing for bedding, but he should have more than a pallet on the floor to sleep on."

"Oh, thank you," Harry said. "Molly said something about having a bassinet somewhere, but after she put him in a high chair for dinner I thought that might be going a bit too far."

"Well ideally, I'd like to find them little beds to sleep in but I doubt I'll ever find them."

"How much do I owe you?" he asked, wondering if he could get to the pouch of money in that sleeve pocket with the hand on that side.

_"You_ owe me nothing," Hermione said with that look that said she outsmarted him again. "This is a gift from me to him; it has nothing to do with you at all. I got Mipsy one as well, but Dobby didn't show up when I called him," she finished curiously.

"Well, since it has nothing to do with me…" Harry said as he handed her back the basket. "I'll let you give it to – Dobby!"

Dobby's eyes slowly grew and his mouth threatened to hit the floor as Hermione explained what she had gotten him. That excitement was quickly checked though with a furtive glance Harry's way and he started to deflate again, so he decided to put his mind at rest.

"Now Dobby, this has nothing to do with me," he said, echoing Hermione's words from earlier. "This is up to you, so if you want it you can have it."

Dobby's reaction was immediate; he raced to hug Hermione's leg so fast that he almost caused her to fall over. A few of the animals became disturbed by the sudden noise and movement that Harry thought the shopkeeper might throw them out. He didn't, but he did start watching them in any case.

Even when Dobby had left and the animals quieted down again Hermione still looked frazzled; her hair looking like she'd just been put through a tiny tornado. Who would've thought that such a small being could be one giant explosion of emotions ready to go off? They both would have to be careful about giving any house-elf a present in the future if this was anything to go on.

After a moment, Hermione seemed to pull herself back together; her eyes flickered back and forth between him and the terrarium.

"Harry, I was curious about what happened in here yesterday," she said seriously before lowering her voice. "About you and that snake."

"What about it?" he asked, glancing over to the leafy enclosure again. The python had hidden itself again. _"Where did you go?"_

"Let'ssss gooo…" Hermione said quickly, making an elongated hissing sound like air escaping from a tire as she pulled him towards the door and gave the shopkeeper a bit of a panicked look. It wasn't until they were outside again that he was able to ask her about it.

"What's wrong?" he asked confused.

"The shopkeeper was watching us, Harry," she said with her voice pitched low so as not to be heard over the now-increasing traffic in the alley.

"So?" he asked, lowering his voice to match hers as she purposefully led them to another shop.

"So? What did you say to that snake?" she asked, as if that had anything to do with it.

"I asked him where he went," he said. "You heard me."

"No, Harry, I didn't. That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Hermione explained. "Follow me," she said, darting off to Flourish and Blotts. Wondering what he could have possibly stepped in this time, Harry followed along behind her.

The bookstore was almost deserted, though a sign saying that no refunds would be given on any of Lockhart's books might've been the cause for that, or the presence of Lockhart himself. The shopkeeper was shooting glowering looks at the man as if he was the jailer tasked to make sure his troublesome charge didn't escape.

There was a woman there too, dressed all in green with rhinestone studded glasses, her blonde hair in elaborate curls; Harry wondered if that was Lockhart's wife. Whoever it was, their would-be professor didn't seem happy to see her. He had a frustrated look on his face and looked like he wanted to disappear on the spot.

If she was his wife, she probably wasn't happy about the bad press he'd gotten. Harry decided that it'd be best to avoid them and slipped back through the shelves to search for Hermione. He found her nestled in the back corner of the store, her nose predictably stuck in a book.

_'When there's trouble, go to the library,_' Harry thought, both frustrated and amused at his girlfriend's actions. _'And if you don't have one, use the bookstore._'

"Hermione, could you please just tell me what's going on?" he asked. "What are you reading?"

"It's _Hogwarts, a History,_" she said, glancing up at him. "I know Bagshot wrote it – so it's shoddy at best – but it's the only place I knew where to look," Hermione explained. "Look there," she said, passing him the book.

It was turned to a page very near the front, one corner of which was given over to a picture of an old, gaunt, monkey-faced wizard with a long thin beard and labeled Salazar Slytherin.

"Hermione, why am I looking at this?" he asked, growing increasingly agitated at the number of times Slytherin House was being mentioned around him.

"It's right here, Harry," she said, pointing to one particular passage as Hermione tried to angle herself so she could look in every direction at once. "One reason Salazar Slytherin is so famous is because he's a Parselmouth," she explained, almost reciting the passage verbatim. "He could speak to snakes. That's why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent."

"So why should I care if that old bigot could do it?" he asked defensively. "There must be loads of people who can."

"No, Harry, they can't. I think that to anyone can't do the same it'd come out completely indecipherable – all I heard was a harsh hissing a moment ago," she said quietly, her eyes darting around nervously. "It's not a very common gift and if what I've read is anything to go on, it's one that people really _really_ don't like."

"Why? It's just talking to an animal, how can that be bad? And why should I care what _they_ think anyway?" he asked, venting a little of the frustration he felt.

It felt better raging against some anonymous _Them_ than against Hermione. Even if he didn't want to talk about this for some reason he didn't quite understand, he knew that she was only doing it because she thought it was important. He had pushed her and Ron about Snape and the Stone often enough last year that the least he could do was hear her out.

"Because virtually all the Parselmouths we know about – all the ones Bagshot mentions, that is – have been very bad people in some way," Hermione explained. "Herpo the Foul with his basilisk breeding and fondness for magically made plagues, Salazar Slytherin with his Blood Purist nonsense and Chamber of Secrets; Paracelsus seems to be the only decent person to ever have it – but even then he had to sleep with a sword under his pillow every night, though that could have been because he was a noted Alchemist, and we've seen how people react to them," she said with a vexed look on her face.

"Even today that perception persists," she continued. "Some say that it's the mark of a dark wizard because–," Hermione paused to strengthen her resolve, "because V-Voldemort was known for it."

She had said it; she had said the word that focused his frustration into anger, even hate. Voldemort. The fact that she had said the name was an amazing feat in itself since no one else ever did and would wince and cower whenever they heard it.

That was why he was so uncomfortable with all things Slytherin, he knew that now. Voldemort had been one of them. He had led a whole host of them on a murderous rampage that only ended with his parents' deaths. And now Draco Malfoy, with his goons – Crabbe and Goyle – and probably their parents and all their friends were just the same, waiting for any excuse to start things up again.

Telling her that he had almost been put in Slytherin had been a private thing, and making a slight joke of it once had been somewhat uncomfortable. Even thinking that his grandparents might possibly have been in the House was grudgingly acceptable, since he couldn't change it if it was true, but being even the tiniest bit like Voldemort at all was repellent. And it was clear to see where she was going with this.

Thanks to those _Indiana Potter_ stories that Dumbledore had to have a hand in, people already had ridiculous notions about him. Lichfield had hinted that more of what his actual life had been like was sure to become public at some point and if this came out too… How long would it be before _'Oh, what a troubled life he's had,_' became _'Kill him before he goes bad and kills us all!'_?

"He was nothing more than a murderer," Harry said bitterly. "I'm nothing like him."

"Of course you're not, Harry; I wouldn't be here if you were," Hermione said supportively. "How you choose to act says more about you than any ability you may have. That's something these wizards have refused to learn. Still," she added with a bit of a pained look on her face, "it's not necessarily something I'd go around talking about."

"That's rich, coming from you," Harry said, relaxing a bit as he gained a bit of a sardonic smile. "Miss 'Look-At-Me-I'm-A-Muggleborn-And-Best-At-Everything.'"

"People of non-magical heritage are much a more prevalent and visible segment of society," Hermione said primly, "or so I was led to believe. Someone has to put themselves forward and stop backing down to the discrimination or it will never change. I thought I'd get more support from the teachers though," she said with the vexed expression back on her face.

"They probably think it builds character," Harry said. "My cousin Dudley's school, Smeltings, gives everyone sticks to beat each other up with when no one's looking."

"That's barbaric. I wouldn't say that I'm the best at everything though," she continued in that same stilted manner. "Parselmouths are supposed to be very good kissers – but I don't know if that's true."

Harry's brain suddenly stopped.

"You need your books," Hermione observed, placing the borrowed book back on the shelf and departing at once.

It took more than a moment for his brain to re-engage and by then she was long gone. Whether she had meant that as a joke or not, he certainly wasn't going to find out standing where he was. He made his way towards the front of the shop again looking for her, all bad thoughts of being a Parselmouth having completely disappeared.

Harry found her again at the front counter, where she smiled and promptly handed him a bag containing his books. As much as he would have really enjoyed continuing their last conversation, he couldn't help but be distracted by two looks coming from Gilderoy Lockhart and his quill-carrying wife. She must've been in mid-dictation because this acid green quill was zooming around on a nearby parchment before she picked it up and gave Harry the most eager predatory look that put her husband's from yesterday to shame.

The look Lockhart himself was giving him wasn't nearly so pleasant. As he watched, Lockhart's peacock quill quickly became a bent and broken mass as the man's hands seemed to itch to get a hold of Harry's neck. Hermione noticed the looks too and promptly took his arm and walked quickly out of the shop. Maybe with all the negative publicity Lockhart would get sacked before the term even started, because he certainly didn't want to go the entire year with those kinds of looks boring into his back.

.o0O0o.

It was a bit of a gamble – one that implied things that she didn't know if she was ready to carry through with just yet – but it seemed to have paid off. That particular rough spot had been addressed and Hermione didn't think it could have gone any better than that, given the circumstances. Ever since Harry had mentioned talking to a snake in that letter she had wanted to address the issue but had gotten distracted.

When she remembered she'd thought it best to bring it up in person just in case she had misunderstood; snakes are typically regarded as being deaf to airborne sounds after all since the number and variety of what they could hear is so limited to be almost nonexistent. She didn't think that it'd be like dousing herself in petrol and lighting herself on fire though. Harry would never hurt her in a million years, she knew that now. If things had gone horribly wrong it only would've been her hopes for a romantic relationship that went up in smoke, not really her.

It was in a bid to salvage that by dousing the righteous hatred she'd conjured by mentioning the connection to Voldemort that lead her to make up that bit about Parseltongue and kissing in the first place. It made an illogical kind of sense if you didn't think about it, working off a person's ignorance and desire to believe more than anything else.

While some can make hissing sounds, snakes use their tongues to collect chemical traces from the air that allows them to detect what's around them, not for communication. While Harry obviously lacked the same biology, that explanation also failed to account for the existence of Parseltongue in the first place.

Was it a magically based form of vocal communication that encoded what Harry wanted to say into something the snake could understand? That seemed to be the case since it created auditory sounds, but was it unidirectional – perhaps taking the form of him giving commands or putting it into a kind of trance and turning it into an automaton – or was there a degree of interaction and freedom involved?

Harry said he'd asked it a question, which implies that there's some sort of interaction taking place but she hadn't seen enough to tell if that was actually the case and certainly wasn't going to have them stick around to find out. If only the ability wasn't such a taboo subject some of these answers might've been readily available, but as it was they probably wouldn't find anything about it outside of the Restricted Section of the school library – or that dodgy side street she certainly wasn't going down again.

Even with the heightened expectations she'd taken on by saying what she did, Hermione was glad that Harry had believed it though; she hadn't wanted this day ruined. He'd been… remarkably affectionate today, more so than she had thought possible given all the things that could've gone wrong with his upbringing, though she supposed that completely normal people were possible even when brought up in abnormal situations. Just look at her: she had a cartoon father and a robot mother but she had turned out alright.

Avoiding things that could ruin the day was also the reason she had spirited him out of the bookstore before "professor" Lockhart or that woman could do anything to Harry. Her gamble had paid dividends when they left so quickly that Harry never had time to realize that she had paid for his new school books herself.

She'd heard that money was the predominate source of relationship issues and Hermione was determined not to fall victim to any of those potential pitfalls. He didn't need to buy her interest or approval through gifts or anything of the sort and certainly didn't need to spend money to show affection, though he seemed to be developing a sense of that on his own, thankfully.

She was still looking for ways to slip the money Harry had given her back into his pocket though. Even if he was unaware that it had happened, she'd know and it would reinforce her stance that she was still an independent person; just because they were together didn't change that. She supposed the easiest thing would be to put it directly into his pocket again once the bank started reissuing currency, but if she could find other ways to do it she would.

Feeling that a distraction from her distraction would be best, she lead them back by Madam Malkin's until they reached the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where the brand new Nimbus 2001 was on display. Harry was almost instantly engrossed with reading the description of its handling, performance, and various features while she was more curious about why the broom had been made in the first place.

It seemed rather silly to her for them to release a new model that outstripped the one they had released just the year before. The wizarding world was a tiny place, compared non-magical one that is, so there can't be many people with enough disposable income to constantly acquire the latest model. Were they trying to create a secondary market of slightly used older brooms or had the 2000 model simply been rushed into production before it was fully ready and the 2001 was what they had been shooting for?

Hermione didn't mention any of these thoughts to Harry though and just let him admire the craftsmanship of the broom in front of him. She knew he loved the one he had and wouldn't be looking to change; she didn't want to detract from that. The look on his face when he flew said that it was probably his dearest possession – aside from Hedwig, and now Dobby – which he classified as family and not possessions at all, which was good. That didn't mean he couldn't look though, especially if it alleviated the _'you just promised to kiss him_' tension she felt.

Something else in the shop interested her much more than the broom did: it was curly-haired Marjorie chatting up the young man behind the counter. Hermione looked at her watch and saw that they still had a good bit of time before lunch; the older girl must have "gotten lost" on the way back to work after dropping off their robes at the second hand store and "come in for directions."

Hermione decided to try an experiment with a new 'friendly ribbing' kind of chastisement so she loosened her hold on Harry's arm and slowly slipped back a bit so he wouldn't see what she was doing, and then waved inside to get their attention. It was the shaggy-haired shop attendant that saw her; he smiled and motioned inside to say they were open. Instead she pointed at Marjorie.

After a few quick words it was the girl's turn to see what was going on, and to chuckle at seeing them there. Hermione tapped her watch and sent the older girl a slightly exaggerated look that said _'shouldn't you be at work?'_ while shaking her finger at her as if to scold her. Inside the shop, Marjorie laughed, then spun around, took the bloke by the face and kissed him on the lips! While the man stood there looking stunned, the curly-haired girl turned back to her with a look that dared her to do the same.

"I just remembered," Hermione said, red-faced and thankful that Harry didn't see. "We need to get Potions supplies." She took his arm, quickly leading them away from the shop and the laughter she was sure was happening inside.

The man at the potions supply shop already had prepackaged kits prepared and was much more versed in the new payment system so it was no time at all before Harry was distracted by yet another shiny thing at the shop next door. Hermione was beginning to wonder if the male of their species was more like cats than anyone had reckoned – it would certainly explain her father constantly getting distracted with shiny things or wandering off when bored. The only redeeming part of this she could see was that this time Harry was distracted by something educational.

"What do you think, Hermione?" Harry asked as he flashed those green eyes at her.

She'd been right, the green shirt did look good on him, and they brought out his eyes, but that made them all the more distracting when she needed her wits about her to maneuver through the conversation. She was not going to let him buy a moving model of the galaxy for her, regardless of how pretty it was or how much she'd enjoy it; Grangers pay their own way and that was much too expensive.

"That's very expensive," Hermione said, making a show of her disapproval of the price.

Hermione had found that Harry was much more slippery when it came to evading her reasoning – or just disregarding it, in some cases last year – if she detailed her objections right off the bat. Now that they were together she'd decided to turn things around and give a tiny bit of resistance at first so that she could hear some of his thoughts and then go about getting him to see the other side a little bit at a time.

While it made for a much longer process than simply beating him over the head until he saw sense, she was not her mother. Besides, she liked talking to him about intelligent things. The difficulty here though was how did she get him to be frugal and safeguard the money that his parents had passed on to him without guilting him into it while also not stepping on any desire to explore their new world?

"Yeah, but look at it," Harry said as he gave the galaxy he'd found in a large glass ball a little poke, his eyes alight the way Ron's would be for a new broom or Lavender's would be for a cute pair of shoes. "That's all the Astronomy we'd ever need right there. Imagine all the extra studying you could do if we dropped it," he said slyly, as if he were dangling a little treat in front of her.

"Astronomy is one of our core classes," Hermione said, choosing to take the conversational tangent. "We can add classes starting in Third Year, but we can't drop them until after we sit our tests in Fifth. Besides, it's one of the most practical classes we have," she said, adding extra weight to her implied _'even if you buy it for yourself it still won't get you anywhere_' argument.

"Practical?" he asked, finally tearing himself away from the globe in order to give her an odd look. "What's practical about spending half the night freezing while trying to learn something I'll never use?"

Instantly the image of the two of them spending the evening snuggled up in a blanket while looking at the stars popped into her mind. She quickly discarded it though; she was not going to have promised or implied physical contact as the basis of their relationship – that sort of thing just wouldn't be healthy for either of them. They were friends that enjoyed spending time together in a more intimate way than was purely platonic; what followed should be in the same vein and not something overtly sexual.

"Do you know what you're going to do once you graduate?" she asked, choosing to fight slyness and bribery with wit and intelligence to see which came out on top.

"You mean besides having a goblin and a lawyer yammer my ear off about investments until I'm ready to scream?" Harry countered; reminding her precisely what was in store in his future.

"Yes," she said, doubling down on her question despite the huge hole he just knocked in her argument. There was no way Harry would be content just to lie around all day with nothing to do; he'd go mental by the end of the week. She might be able to use that future to prove her point though.

"Er – I haven't thought about it," Harry said, flattening his hair as he gave it a bit of thought. "Being an Auror sounds interesting, but so does Curse-Breaking, and I can't deny that a Litigator is useful too."

Hermione thought it odd that he hadn't immediately mentioned Quidditch, but put that aside for later and focused instead on the logical case she wanted to make.

"And do you know if any of those require knowledge of potions for curing disease or detecting a poison? Or even if you need to know which plants are magical, or when those plants would be at their best for use as ingredients for any potion you need to make?"

"How is Astronomy supposed to help me with that?" Harry asked.

"I thought you said that you'd been studying," she replied; after all, the reason for it was obvious.

"I have been studying, but I haven't read anything like that. We don't even have a textbook for Astronomy," he reminded her.

"It's in the introductory chapter to _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi,_ it talks all about the sympathies magical plants have to different celestial bodies and how that influences the magical properties they have," Hermione explained. "That's why we take Astronomy in the first place, so we can tell when they're at their peak when we're out on our own."

"Oh," Harry said, probably realizing just now why they were also taking Herbology if they didn't plan to have a garden. "That actually makes sense."

"That's just the tip of the iceberg," she smiled as she led him away to the ice cream parlor they'd seen the day before. "Sympathies go much deeper than that, they're actually based an old hermetic idea..."

Things couldn't have gotten better for Hermione! She had gotten him to listen to her, be frugal with his money, actually see the point of a class he had completely written off, and interested in the underlying mechanics involved. And now they were chatting about it while eating ice cream and holding hands like a legitimate couple – and he didn't look bored at all – and he hadn't even noticed that she had paid!

No matter what happened at the Hopefuls meeting after this, one thing was absolutely clear – this was definitely a date. Nothing could dampen her spirits after that. Even Lichfield walking by and tapping his watch, only to stick his tongue out at her when she covertly shooed him away had seemed comical; at least he was wearing proper clothes again.

When she had stretched things out as long as she thought she could without making them late, she finally walked with him the short way back to the Leaky Cauldron still hand-in-hand. That wonderfully bubbly feeling lasted a frightfully short time however as the fireplace flared almost as soon as they arrived. She felt her hand leave his as one of the few people she'd seriously begun to detest walked out. Pansy Parkinson had arrived.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** The part fleshing out Hermione's mother is a little more of a giveaway if you've actually met or interacted with people with this particular condition, though hers is an admittedly exaggerated case since we only ever see people talking about her. An unnamed Guest actually pegged what I was going for back in January, so kudos to you, whoever you are.

I might be slightly stretching things a bit by having Hermione "not have the words" to describe her mother, but the condition only did become a standard diagnosis in 1992 (which has since been reclassified) even though the term was popularized in the very early 80s. Even today people (like my best friend) can go through much of their life without knowing what it is about them that makes them the way they are. Plus, it let me put Doctor Robotnik in the chapter title, and how could I pass up such a timely reference to _Sonic the Hedgehog_?

Also, since I've gotten a couple of comments on this, not everything people say in this is supposed to be taken literally, even my original characters. The "1,000 students" thing is just a reference to what Rowling said passed off as a tongue-in-cheek exaggeration.

As always, thanks for reading.


	22. Hopeful Sprigs

**AN:** You, as readers, are in a very unique position: you get to know what's going on in different character's heads and lives at different points in time. It's not everyone at all times, but you're privy to much more than the individual characters are, and that limitation on their knowledge comes into play here.

With so many things to work in without everyone knowing what's going on, I'm attempting something new in this chapter. Rather than having large breaks mid-scene when the point-of-view changes, this chapter will simply slide into that new point-of-view as it shifts to follow that new character. In a visual medium this would be accomplished by the camera panning away from one person to follow another in one continuous shot, and it's that feel that I'm going for here.

That said, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to a new reader to the story, teedub, whose interest in Lichfield's background influenced the way certain things in this played out.

.o0O0o.

"_Pansy?" _Hermione asked beside him. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Harry was wondering that as well. He didn't know much about Draco's little on-again off-again female follower, but what he did know he didn't like.

"I could ask you the same thing, Granger," the pug-faced Slytherin girl scornfully shot back. "At least I belong here. Potter may look half-and-half now at least," Pansy said giving him a brief look, "but you might as well carry a sign saying 'I'm a muggle.' But if you must know," the girl said self-importantly, "I'm here to see Draco."

"Well don't let us keep you," Harry said, eager to move the rude girl on her way.

"Yes, don't you have a bathroom you should be skulking in?" Hermione said curiously.

Pansy gave a most Draco-like smirk in response before heading for the stairs; once she was gone he turned to Hermione.

"What was that bathroom comment about?" he asked.

"She and some of her friends paid me a visit last year after we had become friends," she replied with a perturbed look on her face. "She didn't think I was worthy of the honor."

"You're plenty worthy," Harry said bracingly. "If anything, I'm the one that's lacking."

"You jumped on a troll for me," she said as if she really shouldn't have to keep reminding him.

"Yeah, but you set Snape on fire," he reminded her.

Hermione already had her mouth open for another rebuttal but in the end closed it with a bit of a pleased smile.

"That's true," she said.

It was certainly something he'd never do. No matter how tempting it was to burn Snape alive, Madam Pomfrey would only fix him up and he'd come back for revenge.

"Why didn't you ever say anything about Pansy?"

"And tell everyone that I was jumped by a troll twice in the same bathroom? I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction," Hermione ended with the stuffy way she had when she wanted to imply that it really didn't matter to her.

"I wonder what she's here to see Draco for," he said, wondering what the odds were of avoiding the blond ponce and if it had anything to do with Dobby's warning.

"I don't want to know," she said, holding her hands out in front of her as if to ward off something unpleasant. That didn't seem to help as she suddenly shut her eyes and shook her head.

Harry chuckled; apparently she was of two minds when it came to snakes. Speaking like Slytherin might be fine in her book but speaking to a Slytherin was too horrifying to think about. Perhaps to put all that behind her, she made her way over to the barman to ask where to find Professor McGonagall.

"I'd say you'd meet her right about there," the gap-toothed man said as he pointed to the base of the stairs. His finger then flicked upwards to point at the teacher in question at the top of them, wearing her typical tartan.

"Ah, there you are, Mister Potter," the transfiguration professor said as she made her way downstairs. True to the barman's estimate they met at the bottom. "Miss Granger, I wasn't expecting to see you here," the woman said with a look that said the surprise was a nice one.

"We were doing our shopping together and Harry invited me along," Hermione said pleasantly as she took his arm.

While normally her doing that was nice, this time it made him feel like he was doing something he shouldn't be. Then again, McGonagall had the uncanny ability to make you remember everything you had ever done wrong in the first place so that could just be it. Or it could be how everything was already getting started by greatly overstating his role in things.

"That's better than following him into detention," McGonagall replied with a look down at them that silently hoped that there wouldn't be a repeat of last year when they had been caught out of bed after slipping Hagrid's newest pet, Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback, out of Hogwarts in the dead of night. Harry was still glad that she didn't know the real reason for that or she'd roast them both alive, summer break or not.

"There should be plenty of food to go around," McGonagall continued, "though with so many teenage boys it's hard to say if there'll be anything left by the time we get there," she said with a look at Harry as if he was suddenly going to start eating as much as three people combined. "Some of the older students and graduates couldn't attend, but almost everyone else is here."

"How many people are there?" Harry asked.

"Some of the younger ones have parents with them," McGonagall replied "but if you're asking about the Hopefuls program as a whole, there are four graduates, fourteen current students, and three prospective students – including Miss Weasley, who couldn't attend."

Harry hadn't known that Ginny had been invited let alone been kept home because he had asked Molly to try to keep her away from him. It had seemed a good idea at the time when all she was doing was sulking and constantly staring at him but now it seemed a really big price to pay just for her to go to school.

Who knows, if she had come she might've actually made some friends and forgotten about him, even if it meant her being in the same room as Hermione for a while. That self-disgusted squirmy feeling in his stomach told him that he'd have to find some way to make it up to her, without getting her hopes up and stringing her along. But how was he even supposed to do that?

Hermione had been thinking of something else entirely though. "Harry's been paying for twenty-one people to go to Hogwarts?" Perhaps sensing a bad turn in the conversation, McGonagall had given her wand a flick before Hermione was even halfway through her appalled realization.

Before their professor could respond, something clicked in his mind.

"That transfer to the Hopefuls we stopped was for twenty-one years of tuition," Harry remembered. "My rent at the Burrow is covering Ginny's for this year, but what are the rest of them going to do?"

"That's still too much, Harry," Hermione interjected. "You don't have to pay for people who already graduated, so that transfer was for way more than what they'd need – unless…" her eyes popped and she stopped, staring at McGonagall as if she couldn't believe what her brain was telling her.

McGonagall sighed and seemed to gather herself for a moment.

"The Hogwarts Hopefuls was designed to be a substantial investment in a child's future, that's why so many of the students selected feel indebted to us and strive to repay that investment in whatever way they can," she explained. "The reason for that is because the Hopefuls program doesn't pay for one year at a time, but for all seven years at once."

Harry felt a large lead weight land in his stomach and squash that squirmy feeling from before. He had thought things had been bad before but something told him that it just got worse.

"That's a hundred and forty-seven years of school!" Hermione said with a look of righteous indignation at flagrant rule-breaking on her face that dwarfed anything she had given them last year that pointed directly at Professor McGonagall. "One hundred twenty-six of which he's already paid, and he doesn't even know these people. What if they're someone he hates?"

Part of Harry's mind was numb; he had not been expecting a hundred and forty-seven. No wonder Barchoke said that the damages would make his head explode and his account balance simply said _a lot_. Another part of him groaned that once he graduated he'd never get out of the tiny room with a goblin constantly blabbering on about investments, while yet a third maddeningly suggested mentioning that he was paying for himself as well, just to see if Hermione would explode all over her favorite professor, but the rest of him thought that probably wasn't the best idea.

This had gotten to be way too much, Harry had decided. Survival instincts said he had to do something.

"Well," he said, turning to Hermione. "If we do end up having twenty kids, at least I know I can pay for them." He must have overshot the mark because his girlfriend's face went directly to utter embarrassment and even McGonagall looked stunned.

"We may not have a castle left standing once you two are done. Merlin help us if you have any children at all," McGonagall said finally, looking forward to a disastrous future beyond them.

"In my position as Deputy Headmistress," she said in a more formal tone once she'd recovered a bit. "I'm not at liberty to make any formal statements on behalf of the school concerning the current state of affairs, so on the topic of these financial concerns, I believe I can only wish you well in your legal proceedings and to say 'good luck'."

Another quick flick sent a bit of a disturbance around them, causing Harry to wonder what that spell had done; kept things secret like a Concealer if his bet was right. That quasi-official pronouncement seemed to be the end of that discussion too because she was right, there wasn't anything that outrage or talking about it in the Leaky Cauldron could do; this was going to have to be sorted out in court by actual adults.

As they went upstairs Harry found out just how uncomfortable walking with two people could be. McGonagall's stiff walk seemed to say that maybe all of this had been a bad idea and Hermione just seemed glad that the older woman wasn't talking about kids any more. Meanwhile, the heavy lead weight in Harry's stomach had melted and congealed into this deepening sense of dread and built up expectations that he didn't know if he could live up to, let alone deserve.

More to soothe himself than anything else he poked Hermione's arm. The look she gave him was of such practiced and stunned disbelief that he had to assume that her dad had seen that more than once, the gesture at McGonagall's back that asked, _"You had to say that in front of __**her**__?"_ was all for him though.

Harry chuckled, and though her expression cleared into a bemused smile that angsty feeling returned as soon as they hit the landing. Each step closer they took to that unmarked door in front of them felt like one step closer to the gallows. Harry couldn't explain it; he had been wronged, he was the one that had been stolen from, he was the one whose money had paid for everyone they were about to see to have gone to school – so why did he feel like such a fraud?

It wasn't until McGonagall started to open the door that Harry realized what it was and he quickly drew Hermione off to one side.

"I don't think I can do this," he said, feeling like he was going to throw up.

"Give us a minute," she said to McGonagall, who was dithering by the door; it was only when it was closed with the professor inside that she turned back to him. "What is it?"

"I can't go in there," Harry said. "I haven't done anything for these people; if anything, I've made it worse."

"What do you mean?"

"Dumbledore stole that money, that's account fraud," he explained. "They're only waiting for us to make our case before they put the money back and collect on the debts. So I haven't paid for anything; if anything, I'm hurting Hogwarts with this. It's the only place I've ever had friends, the only place that's felt like home."

And as quickly as that all memory of the embarrassment from before was gone and Hermione was hugging him again. He didn't deserve those hugs or how good they made him feel. He did enjoy them though and as he buried his face in her hair and returned it she clung on like she was never going to let him go.

"Maybe Hogwarts deserves to be hurt a little, Harry," she said, finally pulling away from him.

"What do you mean?" he asked curiously. Hermione wanting to hurt Hogwarts was about as unthinkable as – well, as her exploding all over Professor McGonagall.

"Dumbledore's been in charge of Hogwarts for more than a generation," Hermione explained, "and the school – the entire wizarding world – has never once doubted his word on anything. You can't put someone in that kind of position and expect them never to take advantage of you, to never abuse that trust. He did, and that will teach all of them to be more skeptical in the future."

"I suppose," Harry said, knowing that what Hermione said made sense. He still didn't like being the source of the problem though. _'You're not,_' he thought to himself, _'Dumbledore is. All you're doing is telling them about it. They can't get mad at that._'

"You're not worried the goblins will go after the students, are you?" she asked, looking like she was dancing on a knife's edge.

Harry thought for a moment. Barchoke said that they weren't interested in going after Hagrid and if all of the students were as hard pressed as the Weasleys then everything he'd learned told him–

"No," he said finally. "They wouldn't go after people who couldn't pay. It'd be the school they'd go after."

"And Hogwarts would have more than enough money to pay what they owe," Hermione explained, calmly centered again. "It's over a thousand years old and one of the richest institutions in the country," she said with all the authority of a book. "The Board of Governors may not like having to pay, but they can. And you needn't worry about the Hopeful's either," she continued as she took his hands and gave them a squeeze.

"The school promised them a full tuition and in our world that would be as binding as any contract, as long as they behave," she said. "You may not end up paying for their school but you're still the reason they're going. Once the truth comes out though these people will feel horrible at benefiting this way; meeting them today will let them know that you don't hold it against them."

"I guess you're right," he said. It was times like these that Harry was really glad that she was around to talk to; none of that would've occurred to him at all, and he actually did feel better.

"Come on," she said, pulling him towards the door. "Let's meet some of these twenty-one kids of yours – and if you mention that again they may be the only kids you ever have," she was quick to add.

As she opened the door, the first thing Hermione noticed was that the meeting room that McGonagall had reserved was much brighter than either the bar area or the room she'd slept in last night. If the entire place was like this then the Leaky Cauldron would be a much warmer and more welcoming establishment. It was remarkable what proper lighting and wood stain could do for the décor.

The light itself came from a large pair of multi-panel windows that seemed to look down upon Diagon Alley. Even here the gleaming white bank seemed to overshadow events, which only stiffened her resolve for a no-talking-about-work day today; Harry was anxious enough as it was.

Mr. Lichfield was there of course, deep in conversation with a young red-haired rock star of a man on the far side of the room that could only be Bill Weasley – the fact that he was standing by two other red-heads, one of whom was Percy, was completely incidental. Percy's girlfriend was there as well, leading her to wonder if she was there as a Hopeful, a date, or both.

There were four lumbering elephants in the room as well and they were much closer than the Weasleys were. Pansy Parkinson stood with what looked to be half the Slytherin Quidditch team. When they looked over to see who'd just come in though she had to correct herself. All were Slytherins but there were only two Quidditch players, a pair of oafish Beaters she never bothered to learn the names of and another boy who looked to be in the same mold. It looked like things were really hit-and-miss when it came to Hopeful students; she didn't know what Harry would think of this.

"Oh, this is perfect," Pansy said to the other three. "When he gets here he'll probably throw her out of school." The other three goons looked on approvingly.

Lightning-fast connections sparked through her brain and suddenly everything made sense. Hermione couldn't hide the maddeningly excited grin as she led Harry past them and through the rest of the crowd, gripping his arm harder than she intended.

"This is the best day of my life!" she whispered to him as they approached the Weasleys.

"The enchantment has some of the details of a basic protection ward scheme," Lichfield said, gesturing to a parchment in Bill's hands with a triangularly cut corned beef sandwich. "I've never seen one as complex as this though, and there's an odd consanguineous sympathy that I've never dealt with before."

"A lot of the Egyptian tombs and temples use consanguinity as an automatic pass key," the ginger headed man said, scrutinizing the parchment. "You have the original?"

"I do," Lichfield said, taking note of them getting close. "Analyzing it in depth could cause problems with the Statute of Secrecy though, so I'm not letting that go, especially not since I spent the last hour piecing that together from a memory."

Hermione mused for a moment about the minor differences in language on this side of their divided world. 'From a memory' instead of 'from memory' was certainly peculiar, though not as peculiar as wearing a bathrobe out in public.

"There you two are," Lichfield said as she and Harry joined them. "I was beginning to think that I'd have to send search parties."

"Now, now," the oldest Weasley said with a grin as he put the parchment away. "What she and Harry do in a place with so many beds while outside of your supervision is no concern of yours."

"The hell it isn't," Lichfield said with a look.

That was an oddly religious idiom for the wizarding world to have; she hadn't noticed them using it before. By that her mind meant, _'Please don't say it. Please don't say it. Please don't say it - please don't say it!'_

"I can't really argue that he's a responsible last of his line if another Potter's on the way before either one of them is old enough to get married."

'_Gah! Embarrassment overload,_' Hermione thought numbly as she let go of Harry's arm and stepped away from him. _'Warm and cuddly processes shutting down._'

The only upshot was that she could practically feel Harry's embarrassment radiating off of him in waves. Perhaps now he could see you don't mention the possibility of that kind of thing in public. Hermione hoped that everyone got that out of their systems soon so that she could just have a normal date with her boyfriend.

"I'd appreciate it if we could hold off on the business talk today," she said with a bit of a tight throat. "Yesterday had quite enough of that."

"But I hadn't even gotten to the part where my supervisor thought I was a homunculus," the man who must be Bill said with spread arms as if he were wounded by not being able to tell the story. "Though if that were true I never would've gotten out of Egypt. Hi," he said, extending his hand to her, "Bill Weasley. You must be Hermione."

"Nice to meet you," she said, wondering why anyone would think he was an artificially created quasi-humanoid with magical powers. The back of her mind had to admit that the description was more apt to describe house-elves than anything else. _'Great,_' she thought. _'Yet another theory to check up on._' It had been so much easier when she had just seen them as slaves to be freed.

"Percy you know," Bill continued, gesturing to the brother further from him. "And this lump's Charlie," he said, swatting at the back of the red-haired young man next to him and causing him to turn around.

"Wha?" Charlie said with a mouth full of partially-eaten food.

He looked astonishingly like Ron at first blush, though more freckly and with somewhat more defined features. Very stocky for someone who was supposed to have been some sort of legendary Seeker, he had more of the Slytherin Beater look to him that said he was virtually all muscle.

"Can't a guy shallow before he gets dragged into the conversation?" the man groused to his older brother. "A pleasure," Charlie formally, taking her hand with a polite smile that made him look very different than Ron. "Don't take any of his shit," he said with a nod to Bill, though that too had the air of good friends who'd been separated for too long.

Hermione didn't know how to respond to that.

"What was this you were talking about an enchantment?" Harry asked Lichfield, bringing up a subject that was quickly becoming a preoccupation for him.

"Sorry," the lawyer said, with an exaggerated look at her. "That's work talk, and I learned long ago not to piss off the Lady-wife. If you'll excuse me, I've got to take care of something."

Lichfield was making it very difficult to know what she thought of him. He had sent Mipsy to her, undoubtedly so that she could learn more about house-elves first hand – something she still needed to thank him for – but then had her believe that she was working for her too. And then there were the jokes, were they all in fun or were they clever evasions? As bogged down in details as they had been yesterday there was still that sinking suspicion that there was a lot more he wasn't telling them.

"Well," Charlie said, brushing off some crumbs from the front of his robe. "Norberta sends her regards."

"Norberta?" Harry asked.

Lester made his way back to the table that held the sandwiches and butterbeer, wondering if he were brave enough to try one of those cheese and onion offerings. Falling in beside McGonagall, he wondered if the boy knew what he was getting himself into. If there was one woman that girl of his was most like it was this woman here. Merlin knew that trying to keep food orderly with so many people eating was an impossible task, but the wild wizard had obviously neglected to tell her that.

Her hand faltered a bit as she straightened the napkins, telling him that she knew he was there. She was still cagey around him, well aware that she was guilty of not doing her best and uncomfortable that he knew about it lest he bring it up. It wasn't like they had tumbled into bed or anything though, more like he had found her in a broom cupboard in midst of a Quidditch-fuelled snogging.

"So," he said, cutting through the tension. "When's the guilt trip coming?"

"Pardon?" McGonagall asked, as guilty as any First Year he'd ever seen.

"You forget who you're talking to?" Lester said, turning to her. "I've asked around. A couple of these kids are First Years and Harry is Mister Moneybags," he flicked a thumb Harry's way. "The kid doesn't deserve to be guilted into paying for other people. It's not his responsibility."

"I know it's not," the Scot woman said, actually managing to sound torn about what she was planning to do. "And far be it for me to compound the boy's worries by asking him to but I truly have nowhere else to turn," she explained. "Hogwarts has promised them an education and we are honor-bound to live up to it. Every one of the Hogwarts Governors have either flatly said no or given me trifles to clear their conscience."

"What has Albus said about it?" he prompted.

"He's of the opinion that everything will sort itself out so there's no point in worrying," McGonagall said with an exasperated look. "Though if you meant in a higher or more personal capacity, you needn't bother; I haven't asked him. I've seen the way he handles other peoples' money, so as far as I'm concerned he's stolen that position too. And if he had access to anything of his own that you haven't already seized, I still wouldn't take it from him."

"That's good to hear, coming from the Deputy Headmistress," Lester said thoughtfully. Things might work out after all. "You haven't gone to the public though," he noticed. "Trying to keep things as secret as I am?"

"If I can help it, yes," she said after waiting for one of those young people to grab something and wander off. "Mister Potter's involvement with the Weasleys has changed their position at home, even if temporarily, so it eases my conscience about rescinding the offer to Miss Weasley."

"Mister Creevey and Miss Lovegood are a different matter though," McGonagall went on to say. "Their circumstances haven't changed and it wouldn't be right to put one above the other. If I pick one then I'm choosing a boy above a girl and if I choose the other it's a pureblood above a muggleborn."

"They prefer 'person of non-magical heritage' – if you have to mention their heritage at all that is," Lichfield interjected. "They think muggle is demeaning; but I see the tricky position you're in."

"Tricky or not, if I don't find a solution soon I either have to go back on our word to both of them or appeal to the public for their generosity. Regardless," she said with a sigh, "the program itself can't continue, not once what he's done is made public."

'_And that will be soon,_' Lester thought. Something she had said was nagging at him though. "Lovegood, that name sounds familiar. Why is that?"

"The girl's father, Xenophilius, runs a magazine called _The Quibbler,_ though that's gone downhill fast since his wife's death," McGonagall informed him. "It's not too far from the Weasleys so I thought they might be one of yours."

Lester shook his head, they didn't have anyone by that name; at least they didn't when he had known them all personally. "The Weasleys are on the edge of that bit of land; one of the free-holdings then. You said the wife was dead? What did she do?"

"She was the brains behind _The Quibbler,_" she said with an odd mixture of frustration and admiration. "She was the reason they got the name. Pandora loved to pick holes in everything: proposed legislation, the current state of international affairs, the latest edition of _Transfiguration Today…_ I once had an article that the editor cut down to save space and she lambasted _me_ for it," McGonagall said with a furrowed brow. "All of her criticisms were true, of course, the subjects she raised really were short-changed, there was no way she could know that my original draft had addressed them though."

Pandora, what a horribly chosen name. Lester remembered her now; dirty blonde hair and remarkably sharp eyes for scrutinizing everything. She had been of the opinion that they had done something wrong and that was why everyone had died; like some corrected calculation could bring everyone back.

"She was a researcher of come kind, wasn't she?" he asked, already knowing the answer and hoping to be proven wrong.

"I believe so, when she wasn't writing, that is," McGonagall said, still hung up on that ancient barb. "It's tragic, really. There are precious few that are brave enough to chance something new after what happened with you, only to have her die unexpectedly."

"I met her," Lester admitted finally. "She came by a couple times to pick my brain about what happened back then and why. I thought she was writing a history, I didn't think she'd go meddling with things that shouldn't be meddled with."

"You don't mean," McGonagall said, making the horrible connection, "that she became one of the Lost?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if she did," Lester nodded. _'The Lost Generation,_' he thought derisively, _'an overly romantic way of looking at things. They weren't lost and wandering around somewhere, they were dead._'

"At times I feel sorry for you lot that are left," she admitted. "Sometimes I'm relieved that I was never asked to join you."

"You were safe," he told her. "You were always a bit of a prig."

"I was a Prefect," she said defensively. "It's a Prefect's job to be a prig."

"Which is why you were never our friend," Lester said. "No one wants a Prefect from back when they were First Years to join their revolution; it just puts a damper on things. Besides, you were already back at Hogwarts by the time we got started," he continued. "Either way, you're here today and it's a horrible way to die."

"The girl said she saw it," Minerva said to herself.

Lester felt punched in the gut, so much for trying to avoid the issue. Watching someone you love grow old was something that was supposed to be done over the course of decades, not in the span of hours or days – or seconds as it was with Constance. The sight still gave him nightmares at times.

"How'd the husband take it?" he asked.

Not well, he was willing to bet. She and Lester had both known what was likely to happen they destroyed their fiendish little devices. Constance would lose the child, they had known that, but delaying on her part for that long would make the chance of death a near certainty, and perhaps they could have another if it hadn't aged them too much. His doing; it was all his doing.

"He's… coping, I think," Minerva said with a glance off to one side to a man in bright yellow robes. "But I don't know how well. If it wasn't for the girl I think he might have well and truly cracked. As it is, his… eccentricity is growing by leaps and bounds, and with him having a printing press–"

"–There'd be a risk to Secrecy," he finished for her. "Have you told the Ministry?"

"There's the girl to think of," she said with a shake of her head. "You know there's no support for children in need besides other family members, and she doesn't have any. Albus, for all his faults, has tried more than once to get them to do something but they simply refuse to consider it."

"If the Founders didn't do it then why should they?" Lester mocked. It was a stupid reason not to do anything. Most of the magic they could do today had never been dreamed of when the Founders had lived. "I'll come up with something."

Trying to divert himself from diving into a funk by doing something productive he said, "Check your books when you get a chance, there should be a tuition already paid under the name of Constance Lichfield – this was thirty-five years ago or more. I'm not going to be using it and it should be used for something good instead of just sitting there."

He nodded as he continued, a plan forming in his head.

"I could probably get him to sign something, thinking that I mean to invest, using her tuition in lieu of hard currency, and slip in a provision that he have regular sessions with a Mind Healer – just to make sure he isn't unduly affected by muggle radial lazy beams or something," Lester finished with a wave.

"He would buy that, and it would certainly take care of her schooling – leaving me free to use what I have to see to Mister Creevey," McGonagall said, putting the pieces together. "It would only be for the year, but that may be enough to let his parents get their affairs in order or look into other options."

Minerva had a pleasant smile then. The older woman had never been his type but maybe the boy wasn't so crazy after all. Lester glanced at Harry before continuing.

"You know," he said slyly as he reached into his sleeve pocket, "a Deputy Head should be thinking more long-term than just the immediate concerns of the school. If you really wanted to get in good with some of the rich alumni, you might want to make sure they have pleasant memories of their time at Hogwarts. Now I have here a series of letters, written as bailiff on behalf of the Potter Estate…"

Pulling out the letters in question, Lester glanced at them before handing them over.

"This one's a cease and desist order telling Hogwarts to stop recognizing Albus Dumbledore as the boy's guardian in any way," he told McGonagall as her eyes grew. How she hadn't seen this coming he didn't know. "He's also not to have any contact with the boy. I've lied and told him that the old man stands to inherit should anything happen to him – just to put him on his guard," Lester confided, "but you can never be too careful."

"As Deputy Head, you have to see that the current Headmaster has a conflict of interest with that one," he went on to say before passing her the next one. "This one should help clear your mind though, it authorizes the boy's Head of House to be the final arbiter for any punishments, detentions, or any other school-related matter having to do with him while the legal process is ongoing," Lester smiled.

The stunned Scot blinked at him like an overstuffed owl.

"It's still Hogwarts custom to arrange Hogsmeade weekends to take advantage of holidays, isn't it?" he asked quickly, seeming to change the topic.

"The schedule hasn't been finalized, but yes, that's still the custom. Why?" the confused and buffeted Deputy Headmistress asked.

"It just occurs to me that this coming Halloween lands on a Saturday," Lester said with a shrug, as if it were an idle thought before extending a third letter to her. "Now this one states that although our assertion is that Harry is independent, as his litigator, bailiff, and the closest thing the boy has to a _de facto_ guardian, I am authorizing Hogwarts to extend the privilege–"

"–Of Hogsmeade visits to him a year early," McGonagall finished for him, finally catching up.

"It was just a thought," Lester said nebulously. "The school is rather indebted to him and Halloweens haven't been particularly pleasant for the boy, as I recall. Oh! I almost forgot," he said, reaching back into his pocket for another letter. "This one informs Hogwarts that I am the legal representative of Miss Hermione Granger as well."

Minerva gave him a look as if she didn't know whether to comply or send him to detention, so he knew that his job was done.

"Now what can you tell me of these onion things?" Lester said, pointing to the odd sandwiches.

"Eat it," McGonagall said as she put the letters away up her sleeve. "They won't kill you. I've got to get things started."

Lester took a sandwich and made his way back to the kids before the woman could change her mind and poison him.

"But if you're back in the country anyway," stocky Charlie was saying to Bill, "you can use my room and just take it for me; that way I don't have to see mum."

"There's no way I'm moving back in there; I just got my stuff out," the older brother said with a flip of his ponytail. "And you can't honestly think you can be in the country and not pay her a visit. All she has to do is look at the clock between now and then to see how Percy is and she'll know that her darling Charlie-kins skipped off without ever seeing her," his brother said mournfully, laying it on rather thick.

"I – saw – her – at – Christmas!" the frustrated young man gruffed, causing Hermione to pause once again in her conversation with Percy and Penelope as laughter threatened to escape. The third red-headed Weasley looked horribly embarrassed at the portrayal of his mother in front of his girlfriend and seemed to be debating whether it'd be better to never think about dating again.

Perhaps comically poking fun at her own change in relationship status before anyone else had the chance to would help settle things down when she and Harry first came in contact with people they hadn't seen in a while; Fred and George specifically? That was so far afield for her though that Hermione doubted that she'd be able to do it right, especially without possibly seeming mean to Harry, so in the end she ditched the idea.

"She kept trying to get me to move home, set me up with my coworkers, and moaning about grandchildren," the dragon-keeper continued. "I preferred it when she found something objectionable and tried to run our girlfriends off."

"You should do what I'd do then," Bill said sagely. "Find a French bird and say you're engaged. That'd really make her go nuts."

All thoughts of resuming her talk with the Prefects about the alternative Defense book list they had come up with were foiled as Mr. Lichfield poked the back of Harry's head, attracting everyone's attention as he gestured to the center of the room behind him.

"The stands are packed and the referee's waiting," he said meaningfully, though what that meaning was certainly wasn't what Hermione'd call clear. A Quidditch reference, obviously, perhaps saying that everyone was waiting on them? Just how many new idioms was she going to have to learn?

She felt Harry tighten up beside her; he really didn't like all this attention, be it deserved or not. Hermione rubbed her hand along his back supportively to help him relax… and to give him a bit of a push if she needed to if his feet stopped working in the next minute or so. She might not be able to get him away from all this attention all of the time but that only made the time spent with her all the more important if she could find a way for him to decompress and relax.

"Attention please," Professor McGonagall said, trying to politely cut through the din of conversation with just the right mixture of propriety and informality. "I apologize for the bit of a late start, but I think everyone's here that's coming."

Hermione couldn't help but glance over to Pansy and the other Slytherins. Harry hadn't said anything about them yet but her mind had been preoccupied with almost nothing but. The boys were still undisturbed but as time had passed Pug-nose Pansy had become increasingly concerned, repeatedly checking her watch and scanning the room to make sure she hadn't missed anyone.

'_Where was dear Drakey-poo?'_ she could almost hear the girl think. _'Whatever could be keeping my darling dragon from me?'_

Hermione desperately tried to keep the smile off her face as she waited for the hammer to fall.

"Now as you all know," McGonagall intoned, sounding so much like she did when she explained the four Hogwarts Houses to them last year. "The Hogwarts Hopefuls was established nearly ten years ago, at the end of a grisly Wizarding War," she said somberly. "It was hoped that by extending our hand in friendship to those in need that we'd be helping to create a more hopeful future for us all."

That tempered Hermione's enthusiasm a bit. No matter how deplorably it had been brought about, it was a noble goal. Glancing over at the Slytherins almost made it seem like the professor was trying to reach out to a tribe of tiny trolls; they all had peculiar looks on their faces like they had never even considered why their schooling had been gifted to them in the first place. All but Pansy, of course, who kept shooting looks at the door.

"For many years," McGonagall continued, "graduating Hopefuls have written to me asking for ways that they could get in contact and personally thank those responsible for giving them their chance at an education, and for years I have had nothing to tell them, for I didn't know."

Seeing the professor's glance flicker over to them, Hermione rubbed Harry's tense back again, knowing the room's attention was about to suddenly shift to him.

"The anonymous benefactor who's been the source of our funds has now been identified, and he has graciously agreed to be here today," McGonagall said, causing Pansy to look at the door again.

Bill, though, took a page from Mr. Lichfield's book and poked the back of Harry's head. The mild curiosity on the older boy's face when he looked back at him said that he thought the solution was obvious. Harry shrugged, causing Bill to shake his head and smile like he should've known all along. That did more to relax Harry than anything else.

"I'd like all of you to give a warm welcome to Mister Harry Potter," Professor McGonagall finished with a smile gesturing to the resident celebrity.

In that moment, when almost every face in the room visibly brightened at the same time, Hermione almost forgot to look at Pansy. She glanced over just in time to see the girl's mouth fall to the floor like a concussed fish. The older Slytherins all looked at Pansy like all of this was somehow her fault.

As the people nearest to Harry started to form a queue – meaning she wouldn't have to push him out after all – Hermione saw the two Beaters head for the door, only to turn back when their friend didn't join them. By that point Bill had started his story about how he was the first Hopeful and how Charlie almost didn't make it.

"C'mon, Cassius," one of the Beaters said, shooting McGonagall a distrusting look.

The boy named Cassius lingered uncertainly for a moment before he joined them too, leaving Pansy quite alone.

"It can't be," Pug-nose said, still at a loss to understand what's happened. "It was the Malfoys," she almost pleaded, "they were the ones–"

"Whatever made you think it was the Malfoys?" McGonagall asked, sending Pansy a curious look to say that she really should consider the sources.

"There were... negotiations," Pansy said tearfully before her face crumpled completely and she fled from the room crying.

She didn't know what sort of 'negotiations' would've been worth crying over, but it wasn't like anyone would be signing international treaties to secure a child's schooling. Either way, Hermione hadn't expected that, and it actually made her feel sorry for the other girl. Was it possible that she had actually cared for that ignorant little toerag?

Harry looked at her questioningly as Gryffindor Fourth Year, Kenneth Towler, made way for Oliver Rivers and his mother; Oliver being in their year but in Hufflepuff. Hermione wished she knew what to tell him. Either Draco had been behind part of that by lying to her somehow or Pansy had invented a fairy tale for herself and miscast that slimy Slytherin in the role of Prince Charming.

If the unfortunately-faced girl had ever been just the tiniest bit nicer then she might have run after her to make sure she was okay. As it was, it was much more pleasant to rub Harry's back again as a Third Year Ravenclaw, Marietta Edgecombe, and her mother came forward to shake his hand and thank him for what he's done for them while Percy and Penelope went off to find Professor McGonagall.

He may not think that he deserves all the attention they're giving him, but perhaps they're not doing it for his benefit, but for theirs? Maybe they simply need someone outside their own desperate situation to thank when things go right and pin all their hopes on when they're not, and the default for so many years now had been Harry. It certainly placed him in the same easily-abused position as Dumbledore occupied to easily sway the minds of other people, but she also knew that Harry wasn't like that – and not just because he had seen first hand what a person like that can cause if they want to. Her boyfriend was simply better than that, and that made her smile.

As the Edgecombes edged away to give Marietta's housemate, Eddie Carmichael, room at the front of the queue, Hermione's eyes chanced upon a brightly-colored yet somewhat despondent-looking father-daughter pair sitting on the other side of the room chatting to each other. As she wondered if this was one of the 'prospective' students that hadn't been funded, she debated going over there to see if there was anything she could do for them. The only thing that stopped her was that Mr. Lichfield was already moving that way.

As the bustle of the room grew and the buzz of conversation changed to how Harry Potter had chanced to change their lives yet again, Lester judged the time was right to get on with it. Slipping away from the others, he made his way through the crowd towards the outlandishly-dressed Lovegoods that Minerva had mentioned earlier. Seeing her corralled off to one side by two young priggish sprigs made him smile; you really do reap what you sow.

"A very good idea, Mister Weasley," the Scottish prig said to her little prig sprites. "I've been having those same concerns myself, Miss Clearwater, but was at a loss on how to address them. I think it shows great promise. It means a great deal of responsibility, considering that you're starting N.E.W.T.-level coursework this year, but can I rely upon you two to be our Student Leaders?"

"Certainly," the eager young witch said without a second thought.

"Absolutely, professor. You can count on us," the Third Weasley said pompously, as if the Head Boy badge already weighed down his lapel.

Following her suggestion, she and Percy made their back to his brothers. Having already passed their N.E.W.T.s they could be a goldmine of useful information, and if they were going to do a thing then they were going to do their best.

Penelope was very excited at the new prospects before her. She'd been having her doubts about how they would last in the long-run; Percy was the very definition of 'all work and no play' and she had the slight fear that he was only dating her because higher ups in the Ministry were all supposed to be decent, respectable, family man kind of men.

Perhaps this study group was just the thing though. Giving him something practical and rewarding to do, where he had to interact kindly with real people who were having difficulty, instead of fixating so hard on becoming Head Boy and using that as a launching pad towards Minister of Magic may be just what Percy needed. Though she cautioned herself not to expect miracles she couldn't help but smile; they did live in a world of magic after all.

As Sophie Roper and her father made way for the next person in line, Hermione received quite a shock – or rather Harry did when he was bonked on the head.

"Why didn't you ever tell anyone that you were funding the Hopefuls?" the new girl asked with an odd look on her face. It was Katie Bell, the Gryffindor Chaser from a year above them; she hadn't even seen her there.

"Er – I didn't know," Harry said honestly as he rubbed his head, drawing a skeptical look from the girl.

Instantly Hermione felt a spike of fear and uncertainty as a horrible realization occurred to her. Here was a girl that Harry actually knew; he had spent hours playing Quidditch alongside her last year and had even changed clothes in the same locker room several times. Katie would understand that sports-loving, more relaxed side of him better than she would. She'd always been the one to harp on him about studying, why would he want to be with her when he could have fun with Katie?

Hermione took a breath and tried to calm herself. If Katie had been interested in Harry she could have said something a hundred times by now. _'Yes, but that was before she knew that he had literally changed her life,_' that fearful part of her said.

"Friend of yours Harry?" Charlie asked with a raised eyebrow as Bill was drawn into another conversation off to the side. "Or should I rough her up a bit and stick her head down the toilet?"

Katie's eyes popped at that, but not for the reason she thought they would.

"You're Charlie Weasley," the girl said excitedly, completely ignoring Harry. "I remember you from first year."

"Nope, you must be mistaken," Charlie said at once. "I'd remember being in the same year as someone as short as you."

"What? No, I meant _my_ first year," Katie clarified. "I've heard all about you from Fred and George. Is it true you went for dragons instead of Quidditch? Everyone was sure you'd play for England..."

It was a much more relaxed Hermione that sighed in relief when Katie went on to hog the attention of one of her Quidditch heroes – at least until a tiny explosion of light blinded her with a brilliant flash.

"All right, Harry? I'm Colin – Colin Creevey," Hermione heard as she tried to blink the after-image away so she could see again. "Professor McGonagall just said I made it in, isn't that great? I hope to be in Gryffindor too."

"That's – that's great Colin," the purplish-white blob obscuring Harry's face said as he seemed to be recovering too.

Thinking that this would be a good opportunity to stretch her legs, and for Harry to branch out and make new friends, Hermione abandoned her boyfriend before the excitable new boy could blind her permanently with that antique camera he had. Remembering what Harry had said about never knowing when you'd get your next meal, she stopped by the refreshment table to help herself to a ham and cheese sandwich and some wizarding drink called a butterbeer.

Looking out of the windows as she ate Hermione was struck by how unremarkable the view was from here. With the windows being such a prominent feature of the room she'd expected something grand, but really it just gave her a awkwardly cramped feeling of being tucked under the eaves of the Leaky Cauldron. The butterbeer made up for it though; it was really good.

The room was situated directly above the entrance to Diagon Alley, but you couldn't see the back courtyard that led to it, only some of the nearest shop faces and a bit of the street itself as it winded its way below her. There was a slow but steady trickle of people coming and going, including that blonde woman in green they had seen earlier, but still the bony white building of Gringotts jut out over everything.

She wondered if that was supposed to make a statement. It almost seemed to say that no matter what happened, or how prejudiced magical people got, that building would remain and there was no getting rid of it. It was the only bank; with a monopoly like that they'd have an amazing amount of power if they ever chose to use it. Perhaps that's why the goblins had – no matter how violent the history between the two peoples – remained a functional part of society for so long; wizards couldn't cope without them.

Turning from the window, Hermione saw the brightly colored girl again, only this time she was sitting alone picking the lettuce out of a club sandwich and eating the layers in different orders. The lettuce she kept on her knees for some reason; she seemed to be saving it. She glanced around to see where Mr. Lichfield had gone and found him a little ways off talking to the girl's father, leaving the girl completely forgotten.

Dithering, she glanced over to see how Harry was doing. He and Katie seemed to be explaining the basics of Quidditch to the new Hopeful while the Weasleys held a confab. The other girl seemed to be doing most of the talking, if her whooshing hand movements were anything to go by. It was a completely irrational feeling, Hermione knew, but Katie made her nervous. Unbidden, her father's voice bloomed in her mind.

_"Hey, if a girl comes off as a sports fan she's liable to get snapped up pretty quick. I've seen it happen._" He had meant that to be encouraging, for it to be some way for she and Harry to have something to bond over, but now it was coming back to haunt her.

_"If he's honestly looking for a Quidditch witch_–_,_" Hermione had said then, _"_–_they're not that hard to find. Half the team is female._"

_'So much for being so mature,_' she thought to herself.

Was this what life was going to be like for her from now on – panicking whenever another girl comes close or Harry wanders out of sight, or was it just something about Katie that did it?

_'She's everything that I'm not,_' Hermione thought, sizing up the other girl. _'She's an outgoing, energetic, sports-loving, sociable girl that has access to that tiny-but-possibly-crucial corner of Harry's life that I don't._'

It was then, after Harry answered some question of Colin's, and probably down-playing any role he had in the Quidditch team's success, that his gaze flickered up to hers and he smiled.

_'Katie doesn't have that,_' she told herself as she returned his smile. _'On paper it looks like she'd make a much better match – but she doesn't have that._'

Setting her butterbeer down and choosing a couple sandwiches at random and an unopened bottle of the sinfully good drink, Hermione quickly walked over to him and handed them over. If left to himself Harry probably wouldn't eat at all.

"I'll be back," she said, giving him a bit of a hug and Katie a pleasant smile.

Hermione didn't wait for a response or follow-up question but immediately returned to the refreshments to reclaim her butterbeer and grab a club sandwich. Katie placed firmly behind her – only the worst sort of girl would make a move on Harry after something like that, and those were the kind of girl that Harry would never date – she made her way to the bright but lonely girl with lettuce on her knees.

"Is someone sitting here?" Hermione asked, standing next to the chair the girl's father had occupied. There was always the chance the girl simply didn't want company, so it was always best to be polite.

"I don't see anyone, but I don't suppose that means that no one isn't there," the dishwater blonde replied in a way that only a grammarian could decipher. What struck Hermione almost as much as the convoluted speech was the girl's strangely protuberant eyes.

"If you try and find someone," the girl continued, "make sure you give them my apologies. Especially if only you can see them. Invisible people have feelings too."

"Right," Hermione said, feeling like she had suddenly found herself in the deep end of the pool and unable to feel the bottom. She took the seat anyway. "Would you like my lettuce," she asked, "or are you taking it off because you don't like it?"

"Oh, yes please, if you don't mind," the other girl said. "We've had several gurdyroots disappear from our garden lately and think a rogue wolpertinger's nesting somewhere close by. Of course it could be a sprighare or someone's pet jackalope that's run away; they're very quick, you know."

That made Hermione pause for a moment. It wasn't often that she was faced with a hole in her knowledge, but this certainly fit.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with any of those animals," she said finally, handing over her lettuce. "I've read _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, but haven't seen any mention of them. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

"Luna Lovegood," the girl introducing herself. "I'm surprised they're not mentioned," Luna said in her vague way. "Daddy says there are loads of creatures that people don't believe exist though. They didn't believe the Lobalug existed until merpeople started using it as a weapon. Of course they may not have thought they were fantastic enough; they're quite common in some areas, though only the sprighare are native to Britain. They're like rabbits but have a tiny horn like a unicorn."

"That's very interesting," she said diplomatically, not sure if the girl was making it up or not; the part about lobalugs was certainly true.

Hermione briefly considered deeming the friend-making experiment a failure and running back to Harry when she saw the woman-in-green slink into the room. Her dislike of the way that woman had looked at Harry had nothing to do with inadequacies with Quidditch. Darting back to him now would only serve to draw the woman's attention to him again when there's a chance he'd go unnoticed in the crowd. Thankfully, Mr. Lichfield was already swooping in to divert the woman.

"So Luna," Hermione said more for polite cover than anything else, "why don't you tell me about yourself?"

The younger girl put a slice of tomato in her mouth and seemed semi-surprised that Hermione was still there.

With the basics of a deal with Xenophilius hammered into place, Lester had to move quickly to haul their chestnuts off the fire as the worst person imaginable slipped casually into the room. Well, second-worst perhaps, but only second to Dumbledore and that'd be a tough thing to judge since he had actually been wanting to catch up to her today.

Regardless, Rita Skeeter wasn't someone you invited to a children's party unless you wanted a drunken underage orgy of monstrous proportions plastered all over the next _Daily Prophet_ with your name in bold. The look on Minerva's face said that she wasn't expected, leaving him scrambling to figure out how this was going to work; fortunately he didn't have to, because she had spotted him.

"Well, if it isn't Mister Likefried," the odious woman said with a smirk, making him wonder if she was really that stupid or did it on purpose. "I just came from an interview with our mutual friend, Gilderoy. Did you have anything you wanted to say about what happened yesterday?" she asked with a predatory gleam in her eye.

"Only that I loved your article," he said carefully. The foul woman had a reputation for being very temperamental if you crossed her. "I take it that there's going to be a follow-up article?" Lester asked blithely.

"Oh yes," Rita said, her eyes buzzing about the room. "You dispatching such a famous adventurer so handily left many people confused. That's raised all sorts of concerns, of course, not the least of which is his competency for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job," she said with a heavy hint.

"Of course he's incompetent," Lester said, catching on to what the woman wanted. "You have to have sense to be competent, and that man doesn't have the sense Merlin gave a goat."

Rita looked at him like she'd just found a sack of someone else's galleons and quickly went to pull out a quill and parchment.

"You hunt me down just for that?" he asked, playing with the lead she gave him to see where it led. "It's a waste of your time, if you ask me."

"Oh, no," she said distractedly. "I was trying to find out something else when I heard about this."

Rita paused for a moment to put an acid-green quill to her mouth and perch it on the parchment she had spelled to float nearby. Her face changed quickly then as she remembered something.

"You work for Gringotts," she said with a semi-seductive smile. "And are an acquaintance of Harry Potter's."

"I do," he said, plucking the quill from the parchment and handing it back to her. "And I am. But you're not going to get anything about either of those from me," Lester said with a smile before he lowered his voice. "I know better than to say anything on the record about something big enough to cause Gringotts to close its doors to outsiders. It's more than my head is worth."

The look on Rita's face told him... Lester wasn't sure actually. Either she understood that he wanted to see her alone so they could trade information or she was promising him carnal relations in order to procure what she wanted. More than thirty years a widower had left him so rusty he practically squeaked when he walked and he never really thought that way anymore unless it was to poke fun at someone else. This might be more difficult than he thought.

"I think we could be of use to each other," Lester said, trying to spell everything out more clearly. On second thought though that didn't help matters at all.

"I think there's something you can help me with," he continued. That didn't work either.

"Let's go somewhere we can trade information," Lichfield said bluntly.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** I've known for ages that Luna would be brought in at this point but to be honest... I was afraid of writing her. She's a character that's so easy to bounce off into clichés with or get completely and totally wrong. That kind of wafting, ephemeral... "Luna-ness" is something that is so hard to pin down. But perhaps that's the point. Many people don't like Luna being portrayed as a broken bird, but really, anyone who sees their mother die right before their eyes (especially the death that I describe) is going to have that be an element in the character. I tried to keep as much of that inherent "Luna-ness" intact as possible though because Luna will always be Luna.

Strangely enough, it seems as though Pandora actually is the name of Luna's mother – at least if we choose to go by that bit of post-publication information. I personally dislike the name since it reinforces the idiotic "Naming Seer" idea that Rowling came up with to explain why the names of some characters (like Xenophilius) so closely match their personalities or trajectory in life. While I have typically seen her referred to as Selene, in reference to the Greek moon goddess, in the end I went with Pandora since that name and the tale of her tragic end helped to tie things in to Lichfield's past.

Also, it seems as though with the scene between Hermione and Luna that I've passed the Bechdel Test, where two named women talk to each other in a work of fiction about something other than a man. And really, it was exceptionally easy. Full credit goes to the characters themselves for being independent young women with minds of their own and to J.K. Rowling for making them that way.

As always, thanks for reading.


	23. When Pigs Fly

**AN:** This has got a bit of something for everyone, no matter what story line you're most interested in. It also happens to be the longest chapter so far too; almost as long as the last two chapters combined.

Anyway, let's get to this.

.o0O0o.

Almost an entire day with the bank's doors closed had put the Ministry into quite a state of shock. To preserve the security of their plans what limited floo access there was had been blocked up so that no word about what was happening would spread beyond the bank's triple double doors… but something wasn't right.

_'Had Bankor said something when he flooed to inform them that I'd be arriving?'_ Barchoke wondered, and not for the first time, but he doubted it more each time he thought it. Bankor had been in charge of the crowds that morning and had stood strangely resilient – polite, yes, but still resilient to demands.

The Ministry had been like a vat of molten gold when he had stepped through the floo, the dross of the Goblin Liaison Office swarming around him like impurities bubbling up to the surface ready to be scraped off. Perhaps that had been why that foul Umbridge woman had shown up at the bank; there was no one that matched the definition of an impurity more than her.

All goblins knew of her – everyone that wasn't strictly human knew of her if they had the tiniest bit of intelligence – and the measures she's taken to make life more difficult. There had long been disgruntled voices saying that they should end all dealings with her if she made any more moves against them. Regardless of her position in the Ministry or how that might strain the relationship between the two peoples, Barchoke was hard-pressed not to agree with them. They had been rolling over for wizards for far too long.

Impurities had their uses though; if you knew what you were looking for they could tell you everything you need to know. Gringotts maintained a gold purity standard of ninety-nine point nine five percent. Point nine nine was possible, and even achieved in the smelting process, but they added their own distinct impurities back into the mix; impurities that were never found in any smelting process ever devised or gold vein ever discovered – none that they knew of at least.

While their knowledge of magic was severely limited, their records were clear about some things: alchemical gold was either pure dreck – the result of mixtures of made by charlatans using concentrated urine to dye lesser metals to look like gold – or they were absolutely, positively, one hundred percent pure, there was no in-between. That was how they would prove what was real and what wasn't: impurities.

The Umbridge woman had run off and given the Minister of Morons an earful of how "disrespectful, insolent, and seditious" they had been at the bank. Perhaps he should thank her, just to infuriate her more; that had guaranteed him an immediate meeting with the man after all. Perhaps it was hearing of that "outrageous action against her" that had kept the Minister so calm; the calm of a warrior on his toes. Strange that the man had always seemed so blundering and flat-footed before, but he was not the only one who had changed.

Umbridge had expected to see him cower and quake, to stammer his apologies for them treating her so, and to tell them all he knew. Bankor might have done that yesterday had he been here, but that would not be coming from him today. She not been pleased to have been sent away like a cart operator before an Overseers' meeting either, but he had the leverage here and he would only speak to the Minister himself. It was astounding how one good merger could change a goblin's perspective. They should have done that years ago.

The wizard he had been stuck with had proven so ignorant it was astounding. Perhaps he should stab Umbridge instead of thanking her, only he had left his dagger in his desk because even having it wouldn't send the right message. Cornelius Fudge had never once thought about where gold came from, why it was valuable, why having more was a problem, or the fact that it wasn't found as coins. For one brief moment Barchoke had thought that it might've gone better with her still there, just so she'd know how deep the dragon dung she had stepped in really was, but she was such a contrarian that she would have just called him a liar and demand that he say it wasn't true.

"–We've recalled our overseas operatives that are qualified for the task and will be briefing them this afternoon," Barchoke said, detailing the finishing touches of the Gringott's gold-integrity plan. "With luck, before long they will come up with a faster method of determining whether any of the gold we have has been artificially created," he tried to give a reassuring smile there; he didn't feel that successful at it. Even with luck they still may be checking impurities for the better part of a year, if not longer.

He wondered where all the artificial gold created during Flamel's Famous Folly had actually gone. The records they had were mostly silent on that. It had been split up and distributed around Europe, that much was clear, but what had Gringotts done with their share? Surely the I.C.W. would want to know when they arrived. Had they taken the hit on their currency evaluation, melted it down, and mixed it into their own supply or had they done something else?

Barchoke remembered all the tiny touches of gold that could be found around Gringotts if you knew where to look. The gilding on chairs and tables, how the tiling on the floor and grooves between slabs of marble were all filled in with tiny amounts of gold, even the better sconces and lighting on the upper levels were made from it – perhaps that's where all that created gold had gone. He would have to have them check.

Still, checking impurities for years really was lucky when compared to some scenarios that had kept him up last night: tellers passing out leprechaun gold for people to use in their daily shopping and the havoc that caused when it disappeared by the day's end, cart operators exploiting their position to switch cartloads of galleons for fakes without anyone being the wiser, or – Gotts forbid! – their auditor teams opening the most high-wealth vaults only to find them standing completely empty. Even with his secretary beside him it had not been a restful night.

_Fortius Quo Fidelius_; Strength Through Loyalty – or, more accurately, "the more faithful, the stronger." That had been the Gringotts mantra – the guiding principle of the entire goblin people – for nearly a thousand years. Ever since the day they had been forced from their halls by the Humbling of the Half-wit, his head decorating Hog's Head Hill as the rest were forced to march across two countries to make a new life for themselves here, that principle had always worked – the price for betraying it: death.

The more faithful – the more dedicated – a goblin was to a cause the stronger that goblin became and the higher their rank. For most this took the form of a dedication to the function of their job above anything else, for some a dedication to their family, and for the goblins of upper management, dedication to the gold and the treasures they kept safe, for the role they played in a society that spurned them but nonetheless carved out a niche for their people to fill.

The dedication to the value of that gold had caused the last goblin king to lose his head too, but how strong could they possibly be without someone to rally around? And how could you name any goblin a king without having him betray that position and become loyal to only himself? Dark thoughts, Barchoke knew, but it was a tired and grumpy goblin that was sitting in one of the plush seats in front of the Minister of Magic's desk.

The seats might've been too soft and the carpets pointless and thick – besides to keep the noise down in an area where financial dealings were supposed to be done in secret, why would you need one? – but besides that it was an office to be admired. It clearly communicated wealth and indolence, though Barchoke thought to a human mind that might be the curious thought that nothing was beyond this man's control. Why else would he have windows enchanted to show himself looking down from hundreds of feet in the air?

"Well that's – that's certainly good," the portly Minister said, as if he had actually understood a thing he had heard that day. "The sooner we get all this behind us the better."

"Indeed," Barchoke agreed with what he hoped would be a jovial grin. "So while I concede that Overseer Gutripper wasn't the most pleasant to Madam Umbridge–"

"That man's an Overseer?" Fudge cried curiously.

How anyone could think that a bank on goblin land, staffed by goblins, using gold minted by goblins wouldn't actually be run by goblins was beyond anything he could imagine.

"That goblin is, yes," Barchoke said through a thin smile that showed only his tiny teeth. "He's most competent when it comes to Security, and he's adamant that the doors should remain closed while the investigation is underway, and you must see that until additional measures are taken that would be best for us all.

"While we at Gringotts are eager to get back to business once all this is done, we are absolutely committed that this threat must not become an outright catastrophe for the economy of wizarding Britain," the Overseer said, returning to his prepared remarks.

"To that end we've drawn up a list of – recommendations," he slightly corrected himself as he withdrew the list from his coat pocket. At Bankor's urging he was not to use the word 'demands.' "–That we suggest you have Wizengamot take up tomorrow and immediately pass covering everything from exchange rate freezes, price fixes–"

"–Are you sure all that is necessary?" Fudge asked, looking more than a little unnerved at having to take on such a complicated issue himself. Back again was the bumbling politician.

"If you want to avoid chaos breaking loose as everyone pulls their money from the bank, jacks up prices, and starts robbing and killing each other in broad daylight with the international community watching while we're left powerless to know whether any of that gold is actually worth anything at all?" Barchoke asked rhetorically before thumping the list down on the Minister's desk. "Yes."

The truth was that the new control measures they were employing at the bank would keep the killing to a minimum and chaos mostly to the international marketplace, provided the Ministry not override everything and pass a law ordering them to open their doors that is.

"I just… I never thought that Dumbledore would ever do anything like this," the Minister said finally, as if he had been personally hurt on the matter. "What has he said about all this?"

For a moment Barchoke saw an slight _ripple_ behind the Minister. It had happened a time or two before but once the man had sent Umbridge away and made sure they wouldn't be disturbed it had seemed overly rude to question him about their security measures. If these people didn't care enough to guarantee that their Minister's office was secure then why should he? …Besides the fact that he was sitting in it that was.

"Goblins are not interested in what a guilty person says unless it's a confession, evidence to implicate others, or can be used to make sure the whole thing doesn't happen again," the Overseer said, giving the Minister a brief synopsis of the goblin justice system as he stared at the window behind the human. He desperately missed his Concealer and was starting to feel edgy without it. "We are more interested in seeing them punished."

"Yes, well…" the Minister hemmed and hawed.

"The International Confederation of Wizards is sure to deal with Dumbledore once we raid Flamel's compound," Barchoke said tersely. "They're sure to get to the bottom of why he did it."

_'Dumbledore is __mine__,_' Barchoke inwardly raged.

He didn't like the thought of his prize being snatched away by someone else but while the old man sat on his wrinkly butt at Hogwarts or at the Ministry he couldn't be touched. Barchoke couldn't even kill the man inside the walls of Gringotts without sparking an inter-governmental incident that might trigger another war.

Lester had been carefully setting up what promised to be a solid case for the boy that would drag Dumbledore's name through the dirt. Add that to this latest revelation about his plot to spirit the Sorcerer's Stone away from Gringotts and it would certainly light his legacy on fire. That wasn't enough though; it didn't reach the level of personal satisfaction that Barchoke had been waiting for all this time.

Perhaps once Dumbledore was taken then perhaps he could travel to Geneva, bribe the I.C.W. guards that held the man, and slash his throat knowing that even if he followed soon afterwards that vengeance had been served. …Or perhaps he should just poke Lester to get on with what he was doing, accept he had done his best, regrow his hair, go about making a few Acquisitions with Trixie, and settle down to quietly run Gringotts for the next decade or two. But why did that feel like failure?

"R-raid it?" the shocked Minister asked. "The I.C.W. is coming here? Why wasn't I informed? We have plenty of Aurors and Hit Wizards we could use for the job."

Barchoke almost groaned; the idiot didn't even know he was being informed when he was being informed. He had been hoping they wouldn't hit this snag but that relied on the wizards actually knowing their own history, and these people seemed to revel in the thought that nothing existed before the day they were born.

Still, some of the tiny details weren't well known even among his kind, fastidious about these things as they are. By luck, his suggestion yesterday to bring in the I.C.W. for the raid had actually turned out to have been required based on one interpretation of the Agreement.

"This is in no way intended to be a slight against your Ministry, Minister" he said cordially, lying through his teeth. The last thing they wanted was the Ministry mucking things up. "This protocol was established by the Flamel Agreement between the Goblin Nation – as it existed at that time – and the Federation of Warlocks, the international organization that grew to become the International Confederation of Wizards some two hundred years later.

"The Wizards' Council that governed the magical affairs of England at the time," Barchoke explained, "was the predecessor of your own Ministry of Magic and a signatory on the treaty, as was the Wizards' Council that did the same for the Kingdom of Scotland."

"But there is no Kingdom of Scotland," the Minister said with a confused look on his face.

"Records indicate that it was dissolved in 1707 when the two countries merged to form Great Britain," Barchoke continued. "Both Wizards' Councils were disbanded and their seats incorporated to form the modern Wizengamot."

_'The modern Wizengamot you still exclude us from while you deign to give us rules to live by even though we know more about your world than you do,_' the Overseer thought sourly.

"Less than three hundred years ago?" Minister Fudge blinked at him. "No, that won't do at all," he said, scratching down notes with a quill. "We'll have to change that so that it's always been like it is now. We don't want them thinking they could go off and survive on their own without us to tell them what to do. What would they do without us?"

_'Live in a world of lollipops and moonbeams where the streets are paved with gold and cats are fat and plentiful,_' Barchoke thought derisively.

Sometimes he wondered why his people wanted to be a part of the Wizengamot at all. If the modern magical morons were content to let these idiots to rule over them then so be it. Maybe his people would be better off moving to Ireland and learning to dance a jig like a breed of enormous leprechauns. If only goblins could so cheerfully erase hundreds of years of history like these wizards were content to do then he could propose the Irish Option without having his head end up on a pike. Since that was impossible, Barchoke continued to try to get through this meeting.

"As signatories, and interested nations that bordered Gringotts and Flamel's proposed compound, you were entitled to notification about the breach within one day of our learning of it so that you could take appropriate steps to safeguard the value of your currencies," he said patiently.

"That is why I am here today and have provided you with the list of our recommendations," Barchoke pointed to the parchment he provided. "However, since the danger Flamel posed was international in scope," he concluded, "the Agreement stipulated that oversight into the investigation and prosecution of any violators would be in the hands of the Federation of Warlocks – or its inheritor organization, the I.C.W."

"Ah! I see," Minister Fudge said happily, seeming to understand that the whole affair could be settled without him having to do anything himself.

"When it comes to the raid itself, the I.C.W. has been most accommodating," Barchoke smiled.

He had expected the international body to be very cross with them over the entire affair and demand that action be taken immediately. And while they were pleased to see a plan so quickly be brought forth and things were proceeding apace, it was learning that Gringotts had every intention of turning Flamel over to them and that Dumbledore was involved in the crime that had really seen the watershed moment between them.

One day, if things went well, they might actually gain international recognition as an independent sovereign state and use that leverage to overturn the Ministry's stifling regulatory regime. Barchoke tried to rein himself in though by remembering the old goblin adage: 'Never count your Warboars before they can fly.'

"We're using the bank as a rallying point and slipping their wizards in through non-magical means and with our recalled overseas teams so as not to cause a panic amongst the general public," he informed the Minister, knowing there'd be no way the man could stop the process should he try. "The last of which should be arriving within the hour."

"The raid itself we're staging to take place as your Wizengamot meeting is taking place; we didn't want to bother you with such mundane concerns when you have much more important work to be about," Barchoke said, fanning the idiot's opinion of himself as he attempted to slip away with the whole loaf uncontested. "If you wish, I'm available to be on hand tomorrow to address the Wizengamot concerning these matters and to answer their questions," he smiled.

Just then the Minister's chair swiveled slightly to the right as the odd ripple reappeared behind him for a moment.

"No, no," Fudge said with a wave. "It's a big day for everyone tomorrow; I wouldn't want to waste your time in some tedious meeting. I'm sure I can handle things."

Barchoke decided that rudeness be damned, he had had enough of the human's duplicity.

"Are you sure that we're alone?" he asked tersely, pointing over the Minister's shoulder. "There's been something odd going on behind you this entire time."

It was common belief that there was another power behind the Minister; it was the only way to explain anything getting done with someone so incompetent in charge. That had been the way it's been at Gringotts the last ten years or so under Grand Overseer Largrot – the Overseers were the ones who'd done everything. What he hadn't expected was to have that other power stand directly behind the Minister while in a private meeting.

"Has there been really?" Fudge asked with bulging eyes as he turned to look behind him. The odd ripple moved slightly away from him as he swiveled around only to return to place when he sat facing him again.

"I've repeatedly put in a call to Magical Maintenance about that but they can never find anything wrong with the windows," the portly man said with a bit of an annoyed look. "I'm afraid it may be the spell I put on the chair to help with my lumbago. Old Quidditch injury," he explained with a grin Barchoke could spot as false from a mile away, "acts up at the oddest times."

"Ah, right," the goblin said with a grin as false as the Minister's. "This whole thing has gotten us all understandably on edge, and as you said, tomorrow it a big day for everyone, so I suppose we could leave things here for now," Barchoke said standing. "If you have any additional questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to let us know, and of course we'll keep you apprised of the situation as it develops."

The Minister stood with not a twitch of lumbago pain to be seen, and this time with a genuine smile on his face. Barchoke had no doubt it was at seeing the end of him rather than how the meeting had gone. Still, forms of propriety must be observed.

"As always, it's been a pleasure having one of your kind here and we look forward to many more prosperous years of working together," Fudge said, extending a hand.

The goblin took it and replied with one of the nonsensical sayings humans seemed to like from them. "May your gold ever flow," he replied courteously, mentally adding _'and scald, drown, and crush you beneath its molten weight for lying to me, human._'

.o0O0o.

As the door closed behind the grubby little goblin – which in his view didn't merit the honor of such a visit, even in these times – Lucius heard a huge sigh of relief. Withdrawing his wand as he walked around the Minister's desk, he cancelled the Disillusionment Charm that had kept him hidden throughout the meeting.

The feeling, like warm water flowing over him, as the spell was lifted did much to make him feel refreshed after listening to such a tedious conversation, but it was still nice to take the other chair in front of the Minister's desk. No one with his natural nobility and grace would lower themselves to sit in a seat in which a goblin had sat but at least he wasn't slumped over, like the other man was, with breathing so labored that one would think he had actually been running.

When would his fellow purebloods learn to hold themselves with the dignity that the purity of their bloodline demanded of them? He expected better from a man that called himself the Minister of Magic, but Cornelius Fudge was barely that. If it weren't for Malfoy money spreading through the Wizengamot two years ago the man wouldn't have been Minister at all.

The portly pureblood was precisely what he needed though: smart enough to be grateful, dumb enough to know he needed help, but not too dumb that he became willful; easily led and biddable, but someone who could be trusted to continue slowly plodding along the course he was set on and not to bolt at the first shock that came his way. Yes, as far as underlings went the Minister was a well-trained lapdog, not like the thuggish brutes his father had preferred and started him out with, the very same breed he had been employing to protect his own lackluster son.

"I thought we were going to have a one-goblin riot on our hands when he spotted you," Cornelius said as he ran his fingers through his gray hair.

Lucius gave the man what would pass as a sympathetic and not-at-all-indulgent smile that said he had had everything under control. The very idea that goblins could be anything like the battle-hardened and blood-thirsty warrior race that wizarding tales liked to paint them as was almost laughable, but a well ingrained prejudice was a wonderful thing. If it weren't for how easily it swayed people against the goblin cause, he might have tried to stamp out such incredible tales and erase the "rebellions" from history entirely.

Goblins are bankers; they always had been bankers and always would be bankers – as long as there were no other wizarding options available. He certainly wasn't going to move all his money to France and run back and forth every time he wanted money and wasn't about to suggest anyone else do so. The family had left there almost a thousand years ago and never looked back; he certainly wasn't going to. Besides, it was far too easy for troublesome ideas to spread when people dealt with others so unlike themselves. That was one of the true beauties of Slytherin House: a cultural stasis that never changed.

"You handled that well," he told the labored man indulgently.

In truth, the Minister had bollixed up the beginning by trying to repeat some of his concerns as the man's own, but thankfully Cornelius's natural ineptitude had saved the day by giving the goblin an excuse to explain everything over again at length. For such inhospitable creatures they certainly loved to hear themselves talk – at least when they could lecture. It was like they spent the entirety of their lives studying all the insignificant details of wizarding history in the hope of one day playing a substantial role in it. Now there really was a laughable thought.

"So," the pathetic little man whined helplessly at his desk, "what are we to do?"

Lucius smiled and instantly felt poised and energized; this was the part of his life to which nothing could compare. Artfully shaping people and events with mere words and subtle actions gave him such a sense of power and pride that he got nowhere else. At least it did usually, how unfortunate it was that he could wield so much power over others but be at a loss to change his own family.

It was now painfully obvious that Draco was ill-equipped to play any role in the family's future other than to breed; his mother had corrupted him too much for anything else. It had been troublesome enough getting Narcissa with child the first time just to prevent her from following her sister Bellatrix into the insanity that the woman's absolute devotion to this Dark Lord had driven her to.

Perhaps it had been what he had done then, when that one had proven unacceptable, that had twisted his wife so – she had been unnaturally attached to the girl. Regardless, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it a third time; she saw absolute perfection in Draco and wouldn't be willing to admit that anything about him didn't measure up.

Maybe he should go ahead and pair him up with that impoverished shopkeeper's daughter he liked toying with so much. Issuing a new offer to have her as a regular wife rather than the only thing she was fit to be – a temporary breeding vessel, easily tossed aside should anything better come along – should be enough to get any rational father to agree to his terms, even if neither were to have any say in the family's financial affairs at any time in the future. It wasn't as if Lucius was planning to die any time soon.

His own father had been a brutish criminal the likes of the Crabbes and Goyles, so perhaps a bit of earthy humility and reverence added in would make Draco's son better suited for the role he had wanted his own son to play. The bitter disappointment its father felt at having a wasted life might instill a degree of delicacy and eagerness to learn in his future-grandson.

Draco had been born to exercise a different sort of power than him; that much of what the boy's mother had ingrained in him was true, though not the kind they thought. With the so-called Dark Lord lurking about somewhere Lucius wasn't about to lift a finger or speak a word to make that possibility a reality though. He would have to make the offer.

Still, Draco wasn't worth worrying over, either he would reform his behavior or he would not, there were matters of actual importance to deal with.

"Dumbledore," the mumbling Minister moaned, "a wanted criminal."

"An internationally wanted criminal," Lucius stressed, "with the I.C.W. eager to nip at his heels."

"This is going to look very bad for me," Fudge said, collecting himself. "All those letters between the two of us; I wish you had never asked me to write for his advice."

"It's always good to know what your friends think," he replied with a smile, "especially when that friend is a rival and doesn't know it."

"I trust your friends in the Wizengamot will see it that way?" the Minister said practically pleaded. "For good or for ill, we can't have the association with Dumbledore continuing any longer. When this gets out it will make everyone question everything," the man exaggerated.

"One thing is true, we certainly can't have the man in a position of power within the Wizengamot," Lucius conceded. "We'll want the scandal to focus on him and his dealings outside of his governmental position. Unfortunately, this will make us look weak to the rest of the country," he pointed out.

"It – it will? But we will have gotten rid of the one responsible and the problem will take care of itself."

"Like it or not, Minister, Dumbledore has become the very image of British power and influence; he's better known around the world than you are," he said, tempering his tone to seem apologetic and kind. "Bringing him to justice has to be done," Lucius continued, "but it will be seen as weakness because it's the I.C.W. and the goblins that are doing it. If we allow the international community to fly through here and do whatever they want, how can we say that we're a sovereign people who can manage our own affairs? How can we be a country that others should listen to if we're being occupied by a foreign army?"

"Occ-occ-occupied?" Fudge said comically, his eyes bulging.

"That's how people will see it," he warned, and they would if Lucius wanted them to. "Dumbledore may be a fallen and tarnished wizard but he is our fallen and tarnished wizard," he pressed. "That means we cannot give him up to the I.C.W. without a fight."

"Fight them?" the Minister gasped. "The I.C.W.?"

"Not with wands, unless we must," he said placating, "but with words. The I.C.W. has no jurisdiction here, this is British territory and they should be beseeching us to bring this man to justice, not running off in secret with the goblins, and we must give the people of Britain a new hero to rally around, Minister."

"B-but the Agreement thingy he went on about–," Fudge said with a wave towards the door.

"Was written six hundred years ago between four institutions that no longer exist," Lucius said dismissively. "Why take a goblin's word that it says what they say it says? And why should we hold ourselves to that Agreement now when they're running about in violation of all international norms. Armed raids? Rallying points? Sneaking in through muggle means? What's to stop them from raiding the Ministry while they're at it? If we do nothing against this," he concluded, "then we are handing our sovereignty away without a fight."

"Yes," Cornelius said, pounding his fist onto the desk like he had actually made a decision about something. "They can't come in here and have everything their way, not while I'm Minister of Magic. We'll show them what England's made of."

Lucius smiled, pleased that his little lapdog had taken to things so quickly.

"Flamel may be a special case," he said soothingly before ratcheting things up again. "But even then they should have gone through us; it is an insult otherwise. We should be the ones coordinating the attack, not some band of bankers. Dumbledore will be brought to justice, must be brought to justice, but it will be the British Ministry that takes him down, the British Ministry that tries him, and the British Ministry that imprisons him. Once he lives out the rest of his life in Azkaban _then_ the I.C.W. can have him."

"I couldn't agree more," Fudge replied. "We'll call up every Auror and Hit Wizard we have and have them on-hand to protect the Ministry."

"The Ministry won't hold out long if the goblins rush out and take everything else," he pointed out. "It's not just the Ministry we must maintain but our entire way of life; you heard what that goblin said about their sense of justice. Presumed guilt and no ability to present your side? How is that a fair trial? It makes a mockery of everything Wizarding Britain stands for," Lucius said sorrowfully.

"If I were to make a suggestion," he continued. "We should have a strong presence at the Ministry – where Dumbledore will be – in Diagon Alley – where the goblins are strongest – and around Hogwarts itself."

"At Hogwarts?" the Minister asked confused. "Why would they need them there? Surely they wouldn't try storming the castle. It's the safest place in the country."

"And they are not from this country and know nothing about it," Lucius pointed out. "They're already raiding one highly protected compound to get to Flamel, so why would they stop there to get Dumbledore?"

"But... But why would Dumbledore be at Hogwarts?" Cornelius asked. "If he's going to be at the Ministry we can take him in hand then."

"Dumbledore will be at Hogwarts later on because this is about more than just him," he pressed. "It's about sending a message. We are in control here and things will happen the way we say they will happen. Dumbledore will be taken, he will be given all the rights and privileges afforded to such a notable scholar and war hero, and then he will be allowed to return to his school and prepare for the cases against him."

"The I.C.W. certainly won't like that," the Minister said, anxiously tapping his fingertips against his mouth.

"Just as we don't like them being here in the first place," Lucius swatted back. "Let them take offense, they've offended us. Besides," he continued sorrowfully, "we can't let them take him now, there's a child to think of."

Cornelius blinked at him dumbfoundedly for a moment, his mouth still hanging open from the latest agreement he was about to give.

"A child? What-what child?" the confused Minister asked. "Dumbledore doesn't have children; he's that – you know – that _other way_," he said in an uncomfortable whisper, bringing up a subject most respectable people liked to politely ignore. "They can't have children, can they?"

"There's more than one way for a child to be involved," he said, purposely letting the fear of unspeakably underhanded things linger for a moment before continuing. "But we won't know precisely what the issue behind that is until they have a chance to make their case," Lucius said nebulously, taking a letter from his pocket.

"Now when I heard about the bank's concerns regarding Flamel just last night," he continued in a dramatic tone, "I thought then that nothing could shock me more. How wrong I was when this arrived this morning," Lucius said as he passed the Minister the parchment.

The Minister's lips seemed to move on their own as he read the letter; it wasn't long before Fudge's eyes bulged incredulously.

"Merlin's beard!" the man cried. "Abandonment, usurpation, fraud, and it's–"

"My thoughts precisely, Minister," Lucius said supportively. "Just when we think Dumbledore could sink no lower it's revealed that he had done so years ago. I, for one, will be pressing hard to have him removed as Headmaster, but there is so much love for the man that even with this it will be a struggle," he exaggerated.

Truth was that the man was not well liked at all except by the public that didn't know him better; not by the I.C.W., if rumblings he had heard over the years were anything to go by, and certainly not by the Board of Governors, the pleasant façade they gave him was all for show. With so many Board members also sharing duties in the Wizengamot, it was convenient for them to have Dumbledore continued to be burdened with the running of the school.

Forced to split his time between Hogwarts, the Ministry, and the international arena the man could never focus all his efforts on any one area for long, leaving the rest of them room to maneuver and get things done without him whenever possible. Undoubtedly that was what led the I.C.W. to jump at the chance to be rid of the man's leadership, only to fumble their way into this ill-conceived goblin raid. Well, they would learn in time; nothing happened in Britain without his own personal approval.

"I expect that you'll get one of these soon, if you haven't already," he said meaningfully.

"And what will the Board of Governors do?" Cornelius asked stupidly.

"We'll be complying, of course," Lucius said smoothly. "And suggest that you do the same. With allegations like these, not to mention the issue with Flamel, the Board cannot sit idly by and allow him to sit proxy until the truth is discovered."

And if he had any say that discovery wouldn't be made for quite some time. Slow-walking the child's case through court so that every minute detail becomes its own tawdry headline would deepen Dumbledore's fall from grace and turn the boy his insolent son had been so obsessed with into a cute and cuddly child that no one need fear at all – or perhaps damaged goods where you never knew when the cauldron would explode would be better. He mentally shrugged, whichever worked would be fine.

With the child's custody case as their fig leaf to hide behind, and it languishing in the courts, that would give the goblins ample time to work diligently against their own interests. With Flamel out of the picture and Dumbledore needed here for a relevant legal procedure, the only thing to keep the I.C.W. interested was the possibility of created gold.

That meant that most of their agents would have to be removed and the rest could be confined to the bank itself. That would keep the goblins checking their gold stockpiles so that before the child's case was even decided the I.C.W. would have already left – with Ministry assurances that justice would be done. And with the international community no longer looking over their shoulder, Lucius could do whatever he wanted with Dumbledore. In time he would have everything right back to how it was – only without Dumbledore to make a mess of his plans. It had been a long time coming but he was going to enjoy this.

"Absolutely," the Minister agreed. "The Wizengamot cannot allow a proxy to sit in such a distinguished seat while it owes more allegiance to a possible usurper than it does to the family to which it properly belongs. That should be one of the first orders of business."

With a huff Cornelius began scribbling notes on his bit of parchment as Lucius glanced at the one the goblin had left. Many of the suggestions were going to be necessary, though some were overly cautious while others were either attempts to expand their influence or bald-faced attempts to repeal justified restrictions that had been in place for a century, if not longer.

The insistence that everyone use cheques was sure to rouse peoples' ire eventually, especially if a hefty tax on each transaction was applied, leaving the populace looking forward to the day when hard currency was issued again. The Ministry couldn't allow these goblins to believe that temporary changes could become the permanent new reality.

"This would also be a good time to address precisely how to bring these issues up to the Wizengamot in order to maximize the other opportunities this–," Lucius started to say before he was rudely interrupted by a knock on the door.

Soon after, an old bland secretarial witch entered without leave to do so. All of Cornelius's secretaries were old, bland, fat, or ugly. The man seemed to think it would convince his wife that he wasn't sleeping with any of them.

"Minister Fudge, the Senior Undersecretary is outside and is quite insistent on meeting with you," the witch Lucius had never bothered to learn the name of said. "Should I tell her that you're in a meeting or...?"

"Oh, she's not going to be happy about that Gronntripper goblin this morning still," the Minister said, bemoaning his lot in life.

"Minister," Lucius smiled, an idea occurring to him. "While I appreciate her stalwart support of your positions, perhaps the Wizengamot is not the place for her at the moment," he said meaningfully. "I'm sure her prejudices could be used to much greater effect a little further from home tomorrow."

To the gray-haired, boring, frumpy witch he said, "Send her in."

.o0O0o.

With each step Barchoke took away from the Minister's door he cursed the moronic ineptitude that was all too commonplace in this "wizarding" world. As the lift that would take him back to the Goblin Liaison Office came into sight he saw Madam Umbridge walking back the way he'd come, still wearing her affront for all to see like it were her ugly pink cardigan.

He smiled pleasantly at her as she passed him by, imagining that he had just eaten her cat without her knowing, and he swore he saw her eye twitch. The lift ride was short and while he successfully avoided having a laugh at the woman's expense, the smile he wore when he entered the Liaison Office was genuine. The Office itself started buzzing with activity as soon as he arrived; no longer the pointed questions or critiques they had when he first entered, now everyone was running around like they actually had work to do; it all for show of course.

Unlike the rest of the Ministry, many of these people had been interns at Gringotts of one sort or another before taking their position here. Though they may have forgotten their place, that time would have taught them enough about goblin hierarchy to know that some sort of realignment was underway there. The possibility of failure still frightened him, but Barchoke certainly liked the reaction he got from other people as he passed by.

With a swirling, topsy-turvy motion that put the fliplift to shame and somehow banging his elbow while in the middle of all that nothingness, Barchoke flew through the floo and shot out the other end to land hard on his behind. As glad as he was to be back at Gringotts he was even gladder that that hadn't happened when he had taken the trip there in the first place.

He dusted himself off as best he could from where he sat and looked up to see a gaggle of curious Overseers watching him, only Overseer Marsh was absent.

"I hate the floo," he groused as Bankor extended a hand to help him up.

"How did it go?" the Little Minister asked.

"Harder to get through than commissions on a dead account," he replied, drawing a few chuckles from those that were former tellers and account managers by describing a long and tediously painful process that ultimately gained you nothing. "Where's Marsh?"

"Doing his investigation, or so he claims," Gutripper sneered.

The head of Security had never liked the fact that a non-goblin had such a position with them and he was starting to see his point. Marsh was an old hereditary account, not nearly as flush with cash as others he could name, but well situated in the bigoted society to hobnob with others.

He didn't like what his absence implied any more than how his entire department went home at the end of the day to a place that wasn't within the halls of Gringotts. It was a security concern that had been ignored because it had existed for so long. Anyone from his department could have found out about their concerns, investigations, and plans and spread that information faster than a fire in a mining tunnel. But with his position only informally recognized and his own investigation already targeting the Hogwarts Accounting Department, how could he justify sidelining someone of supposedly-equal status?

"Good," he said, thinking on his feet. "Keep him at it until he has something to report. The I.C.W. will want every scrap he can come up with."

_'Gah!'_ Barchoke thought suddenly, remembering back to the confrontation in the Pit last night.

He had been so eager to poke Marsh with hot barbs that he had actually told the human that he was looking to invalidate transfers. If he put that together with how close they've been working with the boy – which any idiot could do – then they could put together their entire case, and if there was one person who'd most like to see him fail it'd be him. Lester will simply have to get a move on with it now.

"Did-did you have to be making any of the concessions?" weird little Alkrat asked.

Suddenly paranoid, Barchoke put a finger to his lips, then to his ear, then spun it around to point to the walls of the room they were in to communicate that the walls have ears. Though – wait, hadn't Supervisor Braglast been here just a second ago? That dodgy goblin could be anywhere. But where could he take them where they wouldn't be overheard? He didn't want to be anywhere near a torture chamber with Gutripper.

"Ah!" Bankor said, gesturing for everyone to gather around him; Gutripper stayed back where he was. The Little Minister then pulled out a small orb that could easily fit into the palm of his hand and tapped it with one finger to make a little rushing river appear.

_'Good Gotts!'_ he thought _'They come in tiny sizes!'_

Faced with not being able to hear, even Gutripper had to join their huddle.

"How bad were the concessions?" the half-blind Overseer asked.

"There were no concessions," Barchoke replied, "he made no demands at all, which means that whoever tells him what to think hasn't told him what to do yet–"

"–So we should expect demands to come in the next hour or so," Bankor finished for him. "You seem to imply though that he knew why you were there before you arrived but not exactly what you would say when you got there."

"Some of his questions at the beginning sounded rehearsed and only half remembered, and then the usual wizard stupidity kicked in and I had to explain everything under the sun," he informed them. "And he was much too calm about the whole affair, and though he denied it, I know there was someone else in that room with us."

"And you didn't gut them?" Gutripper asked, looking for a moment like he was going to do that very thing.

"You can't gut someone in front of the Minister of Magic," Bankor chided. "It's very bad form. Plus, it would have to be a human, and he'd be sure to take that amiss."

"And that's not even considering the fact that we're smuggling in a small army of foreign wizards, plus the ones that work for us," the portly Slaggran wheezed.

Barchoke had to agree, saying it that way made it seem like they were trying to overthrow the Ministry and things were bad enough as it was, they didn't need to add killing humans into the mix.

"Whether we had to or not," Bankor cut in again, "the Ministry isn't going to like the I.C.W. operating on what it considers their soil or having to go by our list of recommendations–"

"They're going to strike back at us for making them look weak," Gutripper mused, his good eye darting around as he made his bloody calculations for any Guard deployments he may have to make.

"An actual strike by Aurors or Hit Wizards is highly unlikely," the Little Minister said, making placating gestures to the lean and scarred Enforcer. "–Though we should be prepared just in case. Anything they try would most likely be regulatory-based, not acting on our suggestions and the like."

"Which-which-which would be the disaster for everybody," Alkrat interjected in his funny little accent. "Surely they must see."

"We need more leverage," Barchoke said finally. "We need some way of saying that it doesn't matter if they don't like it, they have to listen when we speak."

"Good luck finding that," Slaggran wheezed morosely.

After a moment a thought occurred to him.

"What do you mean, 'what it considers their soil'?" he asked Overseer Bankor.

"The Ministry claims all of England, Scotland, Wales, and that northern bit of Ireland as its sovereign domain," Bankor shrugged as if it were obvious.

"It can't claim us," Gutripper said with a glint in his eye.

"The treaties between us all reinforce our autonomy, as long as we follow their banking and creature laws," Barchoke stated the obvious.

"Yes, that applies to Gringotts and Below," Bankor agreed, "but I naturally assumed they'd be extending their claim to Flamel's Compound after the raid."

"Gah!" Barchoke gasped, not quite sure if he actually said that or not. "We'd be losing six hundred years of investment into that place; we can't let them take it."

"You want to claim _land?"_ Director Fillast asked astonished. "Real, above ground, land?"

"The what is the problem?" the foreign goblin asked, gaze darting about looking for someone who'd explain it to him.

"No goblin's claimed land for a thousand years," Gutripper said, looking at him like he'd risen above himself. "Even the land this bank was built upon was gifted to us."

"I want us to claim everything we may have a right to," Barchoke said, knowing that he was now in it so deep that the only way out was to keep punching through. "–And everything we don't have a right to, we should claim that as well. That's the only way for us to get even half of what we want."

"But how're we gonna stop them from taking it?" Slaggran asked.

"Bankor," he said, pointing to the goblin in question, "you've gotten on well with these I.C.W. types. We need from them an international acknowledgement that the Compound is now – and has always been – outside the jurisdictions of England, Scotland, and the modern Ministry of Magic."

"That's going to be a big job," the Little Minister moaned. "Surely Marsh might get on better with those wizarding types? And there might be an issue with who might have had claim to it before we put Flamel there. Some parchment or other might be lying around in some archive somewhere."

"That's the Ministry's problem, not ours," Barchoke rebutted. "And even then we can raise issue with how genuine that is. And I don't want Marsh or any other human anywhere near this if we can help it; their loyalties would be split. I'm prepared to accept an acknowledgement that for the last six hundred years that the island, Compound, and everything derived from the opportunities we gave Flamel is ours because we are the ones that negotiated that deal and paid to maintain it."

"Humans always demand a price though," Slaggran wheezed, his stomach beginning to rumble. "They can never just give us what's ours."

That was certainly true; the human refusal to see how they had a right to anything was at the root of virtually every conflict between the two peoples.

"Those Continental types like knowledge more than the Ministry types do, don't they?" he asked Bankor.

"There are several wizarding institutions said to be quite highly regarded–"

"–Then they're going to be interested in everything that Stonemaker's been up to, interested in, or doodled on a scrap of paper over the last six hundred years," Barchoke cut back in. "And we're not just talking about the Stone, we don't know what's been going on there. We guarantee them the ability to study whatever Flamel might have come up with in return for their agreement that the Compound and all the intellectual rights are ours, then we can move forward to discuss royalties on any new devices made, finance offers to make them–"

"That'd be using their own greed against them," Fillast said approvingly. "They'd have to agree to give us what we definitely want just for the hope of getting what they might want, and if there is anything there we might just recoup our losses for having Flamel there in the first place. That's genius."

"Better to barter with part of what you might get than to stubbornly continue to claim everything you used to have but will never get again," he said with a smile.

"But that still doesn't mean the Ministry will even bother looking an agreement," Slaggran huffed, ever the optimist. "And that's provided that we even get one, and provided that the I.C.W. doesn't just take what they want or strike a better deal with the Ministry. So how are we gonna make anyone live up to their word?"

There was no way they had established enough trust with the I.C.W. to get anyone there to sign anything binding on such short notice, so something guaranteed to give everyone pause would be needed to get things done. But what?

If they all hadn't been huddled up together none of them might have noticed, but just then a small square section of the solid marble floor popped up and scooted to the side. Out of what appeared to be a solid vertical shaft climbed Braglast, the Supervisor of Dodgy Deals. And as soon as he pried his little legs out he dropped the section back in place where it melted back into the rest of the floor without a hint of a disturbance.

"How in Gotts name does he do that?" Barchoke asked the goblin's brother, Fillast.

Rather than answer, Fillast pointed to his brother who was still sitting on the floor. Out of his pocket the silent goblin took out a small bit of metal and presented it to him.

_'What am I supposed to do with a child's toy?'_ Barchoke wondered, debating whether the silent goblin had lost his mind.

It was a Warboar, or what passed for it nowadays. A little metal pig with wings and a place to mount a little goblin warrior on its back, though this one was obviously missing. As failed ideas go it was one of the Halfwit's better ones, and one he was actually starting to carry through with before the Humbling, if you believed what those records said, but it wasn't like they could ride into battle on the back of–

He looked over to Overseer Gutripper.

"I've got an idea."

.o0O0o.

Hermione had an odd, almost pained, look on her face as she made her way back to him.

"You sure you don't mind, Harry?" Percy asked.

"What? Oh, no. You can borrow them," he said to the oddly enthused Prefect. "I haven't even looked at them yet."

"Then I'll be careful with them," the boy said pompously, "I know how some people can be about their books." Percy's eyes darted to Penelope who was standing beside him, who promptly smacked his shoulder.

"Just because I don't want your gigantic thumbs smearing my notes doesn't make me fussy," Percy's girlfriend chided.

"Well, if you didn't write them in your books–," the older boy said as they started to walk away.

"They're my books, my notes, and I'll write them where it's convenient," Penelope said with finality.

Harry couldn't tell if they were poking fun at each other or were really having a spat. He pushed that aside though as Hermione joined him looking troubled.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked.

"No, I think my brain is numb," she replied, giving her forehead a little massage.

"You haven't been near any goblins, have you?" he asked, remembering the odd feeling from the questioning they had the day before.

"Harry, the last thing I need right now is someone else speaking in non sequiturs."

"What?" Harry asked, not even knowing what that meant.

"I took the chance on making a new friend," Hermione explained. "But this girl, at times I don't know if she's daft or deep. In the end it was just… tiring."

Harry sympathized; his attempt didn't go so well either. While it wasn't exactly the same, Katie Bell was kind of the same way. She might sit there like a bump on a log during the bleary-eyed early morning Quidditch team meetings but now that the sun was high in the sky her energy had her all over the place. The only one who seemed to be able to keep up was that new kid, Colin Creevey, who was excited about everything.

"Then why'd you stay over there so long?" he asked, knowing that if he hadn't begged off to stay behind with the blissfully sedate Weasleys that he'd be back in the Alley looking at the Nimbus 2001 again with the other two still yammering away like Barchoke and Lichfield on a busy day.

"First that crazy-eyed woman from the bookshop came in," his girlfriend explained, "and I was already feeling kind of sorry for Luna, but then it got even worse–"

"Wait, Luna?" he asked. "As in Luna Lovegood?"

"You know her?" Hermione asked, looking somewhat concerned.

"She was Ginny's friend," he replied, an idea forming in his head before it was violently shoved aside. "Hang on, is she a Hopeful?"

Hermione froze a bit and seemed uncertain as to what to say.

"Possibly?" she replied, obviously in the tricky position of not wanting to lie but not necessarily wanting to tell him the whole truth.

It was only then that Harry realized that he had already known what the truth was. He had never met her and never seen that girl in yellow before so she couldn't have been at Hogwarts with them. That meant she had to be in same year as Ginny and Colin, the year he had stopped the transfer to pay for. Looking at his girlfriend now it seemed obvious that what Hermione was torn about was wanting to protect him from feeling guilty about not paying for Luna's schooling while at the same time thinking that it would be a nice thing for him to do, but didn't want to sway him into doing it by saying anything.

When he thought about it though, he already had a reason to help her out. If he could pay for Ginny's schooling in return for having a place to stay then he could easily pay for Luna so that Ginny could have a friend. And while he might not be able to settle things between Molly and Mrs. Lovegood, he just might be able to get her to let Luna come back over if he asked. It's a much better solution than keeping her away from him like she was a prisoner in her own home. Besides, it was the right thing to do.

"I need to talk to Professor McGonagall," he said, scanning the thinning crowd for the woman in question.

"Harry," Hermione said tentatively. "You know you don't have to. It's not your responsibility to pay for everyone who can't afford to go on their own. There must be some sort of home schooling curriculum that she could do."

"I know I don't have to," Harry said as he spotted McGonagall. "And I'm not doing this because I feel guilty or anything," he paused to get what he wanted to say down just right.

Bill had said that being the only girl in a house full of boys hadn't been easy on Ginny and then he went and made things worse. While he did feel – regretful – for isolating her, at the time it felt like it was the only thing he could do. If he could undo that and make Ginny's life a bit better by getting her back in touch with an old friend then that's what he was going to do. It would certainly make her first year at Hogwarts better too.

Strangely enough, Hermione seemed to accept that.

"It actually might be good for her too," she said with a concerned look on her face. "And her dad runs a magazine," Hermione smiled, her eyes starting to brighten as she worked through the problem, "so if we put it in terms of an investment into the company–"

"Then Barchoke and Lichfield might go along with it," Harry finished for her. "That's brilliant."

Lichfield had said they'd be pushing things to get the Ministry to go along with a rental agreement since he was younger than thirteen, but had liked the idea of putting people back on the land since it showed that he had his own ideas about how to run things. Since everything he's heard about grown-up stuff otherwise has been 'Account this' and 'Investment that' – like it or not, obviously this sort of thing was going to be a big part of his life after he graduated, so maybe they could squeeze this one in too since it was also for a good cause.

"Where's Lichfield?" he asked, thinking it would be a good idea to run this by the grizzled old bailiff.

"He went off with that creepy woman in green," Hermione said, taking his hand and pulling him towards McGonagall.

"Don't you think we should run this by my lawyer first?" Harry asked, careful not to step on her eagerness.

"Before we talk to Luna or Mr. Lovegood, absolutely," she agreed. "But as the only other available outside adult, it won't hurt to see what McGonagall thinks about it."

As it turned out, it didn't matter what McGonagall thought at all.

"A very kind and admirable idea," their professor said approvingly. "And were this during the school year, one I'd happily award points for, but Lichfield has already beaten you to it."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, remembering the man putting himself forward yesterday to be the guardian-he's-never-had. The last thing he needed was to trade one old man spending his money without him knowing for another one, regardless of whether he later approved of it or not.

"It seems as though his family prepaid for tuition quite some time ago and never had a chance to use it," McGonagall explained before continuing in a more moderate tone. "I'm surprised at what I haven't been hearing though. So far no one has said a thing about–," she seemed to struggle for a moment, "–your current legal issues with the Headmaster. I must admit, when I presented you the opportunity to meet with the Hopefuls I was somewhat concerned–"

"–That I'd rail against Professor Dumbledore, make the Hopefuls feel horrible for what he's done, and make them feel like they have to hate him on my behalf?" Harry finished for her.

"Well, yes," McGonagall said uncomfortably. "That was sort of the idea I had in mind."

Harry shrugged.

"Yeah, I had thought about doing that," he admitted.

He had particularly liked the idea of doing so just after she had brought up the meeting. He had even gone so far as to imagine himself coming up with some sort of grand speech against the old man that moved them all to righteous anger against him. Even in his imagination though words failed him and it just kind of boiled down to, _"But you've got to believe me, Dumbledore's evil!"_ and that would've made them think of him as some loony kid that's gone off the deep end.

"These people didn't know what was going on any more than you did," Harry explained. "So why make them feel horrible about not knowing when that's not going to do any good? And since everything is going to come to out into the open eventually anyway, I might as well let them hear about it from someone neutral rather than shouting at them."

McGonagall looked at him as if trying to determine if he was having her on.

"That's a very – mature way of handling this, Mister Potter," she said finally as he looked over to see Hermione's smile of approval. "I would hope that this maturity doesn't go to waste though," McGonagall continued.

Suddenly his mind was full of visions of the mountains of notes she'd be expecting him to take on every class, how scoring nine-out-of-ten on a test would be seen as him falling short of his full potential, and how Oliver Wood's desire to win the Quidditch Cup would be nothing besides her fixation on them doing the same. Harry swallowed; maybe this was going to be a truly terrible year at Hogwarts after all.

"There isn't going to be any more little adventures out of you two and Mister Weasley, are there?" she asked wearily, deflating all that tension and sounding as if she wanted just a nice, quiet year.

"Well, we didn't exactly plan on having the last one," Harry said in their defense. And nobody had been thinking of it as an adventure when they were sneaking past Fluffy to stop Lord Voldemort from getting the Stone in the first place; they were far more worried about getting out of there alive.

"And we did try to warn you beforehand," Hermione added in a please-don't-send-us-to-detention kind of way that made him smile.

It did at least until her eyes snapped to his in a way that instantly let him know what she was thinking. They hadn't warned anyone at Hogwarts about Dobby's warning. While 'Tell Professor Dumbledore' might be crossed off their list for obvious reasons, it was impossible to make the case not to go with the second option: 'Tell Professor McGonagall,' when she was standing right in front of them.

Explaining Dobby showing up at Privet Drive to deliver his warning and how he had sussed out that it was the Malfoys that he was talking about proved an easier thing to do a fourth time around. Last night, while Ron, Fred, and George had thought that it was great that he had tricked Malfoy into selling Dobby to him, they were of the opinion that he had been trying to prank him into staying home in the first place. McGonagall reached a similar conclusion.

"Aside from continuing the little feud between you," she said with a look that spoke to how useless it'd be for her to even try to get them to set their differences aside. "I really don't see what sort of trouble a Second Year could cause. Of course," she continued after a moment, "I would have said the same about a group of First Years last year. I'll pass your warning on to the other members of the staff, but I doubt that it'll amount to anything besides the vague threats of a disgruntled boy. There are rules that even young mister Malfoy cannot break with impunity."

"Do you think that it could be Malfoy senior that Dobby was talking about?" Hermione asked the professor. "Draco's always threatening to go to his father when he doesn't get his way and he did have a fight in the street with Mr. Weasley yesterday."

McGonagall stared briefly into space for a moment as she attempted to imagine that.

"I find that very hard to believe," she said finally. "Not that I doubt your veracity, Miss Granger," the professor went on to clarify, "I find it puzzling why anyone from the Ministry would become physically violent with someone with so much influence there and I can think of no reason for Lucius Malfoy to do the same. Nevertheless," McGonagall continued, "he has even less reason to cause terrible things to happen than his son does, since that would put his position on the Board of Governors at risk."

_"He's_ on the Board of Governors?" Hermione asked shocked.

"He's the Chairman of the Board of Governors," their professor replied.

"What's the Board of Governors?" Harry asked confused. Hermione had mentioned it earlier but had never really explained what they did.

"They're Dumbledore's bosses," his girlfriend explained crossly. "They oversee the general management and well-being of the school. Our tuition goes to pay his salary."

"No wonder Malfoy walks around like he owns the place," Harry agreed. He didn't like the idea of a Malfoy being in charge any more than she did.

"While that's essentially true," McGonagall said in a tone that attempted to regain control of the conversation. "There are actually a number of families with spots on the Board."

"Rich pureblood families who all think mine is lower than dirt," Hermione muttered mutinously to herself. Harry was starting to get a little concerned about her; whatever had sparked the change in Hermione was clearly gaining steam.

With a quirked brow McGonagall glanced over to him, sending his stomach plummeting to the floor. What Hermione said had perfectly described at least one of his ancestors, and maybe more besides. It really made him feel the lack of information he had about his family in a new way. Lichfield had said that he didn't want him to get a big head about things but what exactly wasn't the old man telling him?

"No matter what more recent times have made of things," McGonagall said, addressing Hermione again. "Hogwarts was not established to be an instrument of discrimination and bigotry. But there is a limit to what one person – even one as influential as Mr. Malfoy – can do on their own. I can't see anything he could hope to gain by causing trouble at Hogwarts, except…" she trailed off thoughtfully.

"Except?" Harry prompted.

"–Except I don't think it would be appropriate to discuss Hogwarts internal politics with you," she responded quickly. "Not at this time."

If he hadn't been looking for a hint of it Harry would have completely missed it.

_'Oh crap,_' he thought._ 'I'm going to be a Hogwarts Governor._' At least he probably would be as soon as they considered him an adult when Lichfield won the case. _'What's the point of learning to do magic at all if I'm going to be stuck in meetings for the rest of my life?'_ Harry mentally groaned.

Out of spite he thought of letting Barchoke do it for him just to make things as unpleasant for Malfoy as possible. He was starting to think that being a grown-up was highly overrated.

_'And so much for being just Harry,_' he thought sourly. _'Pigs would fly first._' Between the Boy-Who-Lived and who his relatives were – both the Dursleys and the family he never knew – it looked as though that dream had never been possible in the first place.

"It looks as though more people are getting ready to leave. If you'll excuse me," McGonagall said as she disappeared to play hostess.

"I wonder what she meant by that," Hermione said.

_'And what about Hermione?'_ Harry thought with a squirm in his stomach. She had already compared the bunch of land his family owned to him being 'landed gentry;' would she even like him when she found out it was true? He felt sick, and if someone came up to him just then and offered to take it all away but let him keep that one bit with Hermione he liked – Harry'd probably let them do it. He didn't want to lose his first girlfriend before they had their first real date.

She looked at him quizzically. Had he waited too long to answer or was she piecing together what McGonagall said too?

_'Just think of something else to say!'_ Harry yelled in his head.

"So where's that Luna girl?" he asked, desperately hoping to divert her attention away from what McGonagall just said.

If the girl had made her brain go numb before then perhaps his girlfriend wouldn't be able to put too much thought into things, though with Hermione that'd probably just delay her for a while. And then she'd be mad that he didn't tell her, and tried to hide it, and didn't trust her. Harry almost sighed, how did having a girl you liked become so complicated?

"Oh, she's over here," she said, with a look on her face like she didn't know if this was a good idea or not.

The girl in question turned out to be standing with a similarly blond man that Harry took to be Luna's father. Both were staring out the window into the alleyway below while looking through makeshift binoculars made from of butterbeer bottles.

"Luna?" Hermione said, drawing the girl's attention away from whatever it was they were looking at.

The girl scanned them with her butterbeer binoculars before taking them down and replying.

"Hello again, Hermione Granger," Luna said.

The Lovegoods must not have washed out the bottles before reusing them because the girl had a filmy dark circle around her right eye like she'd been punched in the face. It started to leak down her cheek almost instantly.

"Luna, this is Harry Potter," Hermione said gesturing to him.

"Yes, I'm sure someone had to be," the girl said oddly. "We didn't have to be here, you know," Luna confided in them.

"I'm sorry?" he said, not really sure what she was getting at. Did she mean they could have turned down the invitation or referring to the fact that she wasn't really a Hopeful after all?

"Yes, I'm pretty sure it must be your fault," Luna agreed with a smile. "Do you like to toss pebbles?"

Harry was beginning to rethink the wisdom of this idea and wondered how Ginny had become friends with the girl in the first place. He looked over to Hermione at a loss of what to say next.

"I don't think I quite know what you mean," he replied.

"Hm," the blonde girl said thoughtfully. "Dad, do you think he could have some kind of infestation?" Luna asked the man with shoulder length candyfloss hair next to her.

"What's this?" the man asked, turning to look at them. "Infestation?"

Mr. Lovegood's slightly crossed eyes bulged when he saw Harry.

"Azubah," he said curiously, craning his neck so his head could move a bit closer without having to take a step. "Green eyes do indicate a fondness for infestations," Luna's father concurred. "Do you have an urge to laugh or smack yourself in the face?" he asked Harry seriously.

"Only recently," he said honestly. Part of him found the conversation too ridiculous to believe possible while the other wanted to give up and walk away.

"Itchy flaky scalp?" Mr. Lovegood asked, one eye flickering to the scar on Harry's forehead.

Hermione now looked preoccupied with not trying to laugh. He could only imagine what he looked like.

"Not really," Harry replied before deciding to toss the man a bone. "It does sometimes hurt right here though," he said, indicating the scar in question.

"Ah," Luna's father said sagely. "You could be infested with Gurklekins."

"What are gurklekins?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

"They're tiny smoke-like creatures with spidery tentacles," he replied, wiggling his skinny fingers like they were spiders themselves. "They like to inhabit scars to lay their eggs. Having one on the head could leave you open to Wrackspurts."

Luna nodded.

"Yeah, I heard you have to watch out for those," Harry said politely.

"You're in luck though," Mr. Lovegood went on with barely a pause. "The treatment for both is similar. Gurklekins hate love and Wrackspurts dislike positive thoughts, so I suggest spending lots of time thinking about the person you love," he said cheerily. "Though I would do so alone unless it explodes and gets all over you," he hastened to add. "The Gurklekin nest, that is. Although for particularly tough cases you'll want to combine it with a kiss."

"I could help you with that, if you like," Luna suggested nebulously.

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Hermione was quick to cut in.

Luna blinked at her a moment before turning back to him.

"You do like tossing pebbles, don't you?" she said with those very large eyes of hers that were somehow still less creepy than Ginny.

Just like that they had gone right back to the beginning again. Luckily her father was there to clarify.

"Tossing pebbles in the pond, changes all of which we're fond," he said in a sing-song voice that made him sound like a grandfather clock.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, finally coming to the rescue. "It's a saying meaning that everything we do causes ripples that changes everything else, like 'You can never step in the same river twice,'" she explained.

"Hm," Luna said thoughtfully. "I don't know if that's precisely true. If you could somehow travel back in time to visit the same moment over again," she said curiously. "Then I suppose you and you could step into the same river at the same time, but at different times and all over again at once. But I don't know how you would do that," she finished with a shake of her head

"I'm sure the Ministry would know," her father said. "They have a secret underground research area deep within the Ministry. They study these mysteries, you know," he said with googly eyes.

"Right," Harry said.

Finally giving up any pretense that the conversation would bring up the topic on its own, Harry decided that he was going to have to do it himself. He still had a wrong to undo.

"Mr. Lovegood, I have a question to ask."

.o0O0o.

_'Never go anywhere with a woman,_' Lichfield grumped as he shuffled a bit in his seat. Having been a widower for so long he had forgotten this age old bit of wisdom._ 'It always takes three times as long and she'll have to go to the loo twice._'

That second part was certainly true, though he doubted the sincerity of the first trip. Perhaps it had been his recent dealings with Moody but he had suspected the woman of some sort of ploy to double-back and spy on the boy. As soon as she was out of sight he had closed, Locked, and Imperturbed the door to the meeting room and stood vigil outside it with a Supersensory Charm on; nobody was sneaking up on him again.

After several minutes Rita Skeeter finally reappeared looking huffy. Though she agreed to move their meeting somewhere else, she did not look happy about it at all; so much for this being a mutually beneficial and cordial meeting from the get-go. The slimy reporter definitely had the feel of an obstinate renter; she was going to have to get stomped on a bit before she cooperated.

The Three Broomsticks wasn't as lively and boisterous as he would've liked, most that were going about their business in Hogsmeade were ending their midday meals, but it was loud enough and their table off in the corner would insure they had some privacy. Well, they would have privacy once the woman returned from the loo again.

He was pretty sure that she was doing it this time out of spite, and to see how much he wanted to talk for his own reasons. She hadn't been gone long enough to make him fear that she'd tried to double-back again but if she didn't show up again soon he'd–

Lester spotted her as she finally reappeared.

_'Ah, there she is,_' he thought, but of course the woman had to waste even more time picking up a drink for herself before she made her way over. He could have groaned; he could feel himself getting older by the second. _'Hurry up, woman!'_ Lester wanted to yell.

Before she had gotten halfway to their table she had dug out that Quick-Quotes Quill of hers and stuck it to her lips. For anyone dumb enough to be distracted by the reporter and not to stop things before it started, the quill would write down whatever the reporter wanted so quickly that you didn't have a chance to tell what it was until it was too late. This little insect was definitely getting stomped on by both boots.

"So precisely what is your relationship with Harry Potter?" the odious woman asked as she slipped into the opposite side of the booth with a predatory look on her face.

As her quill began to scratch out whatever lie she was going to try peddling next, his hand darted out and pinned it to the table. If he hadn't needed what was in her head and what she could do for the cause he would've been glad to be rid of her.

"You have something against my quill, sir?" Rita asked testily.

"I have something against you," Lester gruffed forcefully.

"Against _me?_" she asked. "What have I ever done–"

"I would have figured that someone in your position would've learned a lesson from Lockhart," he said, overriding her.

"What are you talking about? I'm the one who wrote that article," she reminded him. "What lesson am I supposed to learn?"

"That if you go out of your way to print lies," he said threateningly, "that there's always someone out there ready to tear you down."

He knew that he had hit the mark when she took a quick sip from her greenish drink.

"Surely there's some young reporter out there who'd jump at the chance to make their name by taking down someone as notorious as–"

"I see your point," Rita said quickly, looking around uncomfortably before continuing. "Why did you want to see me?"

"Because, to answer your question," he began as she took a soothing drink. "I'm the bailiff for the Potter Estate."

The woman almost choked as she tried to inhale her beverage into her lungs.

"So he's been in your care all this time," the woman said when she recovered. "There were ridiculous reports that he'd been sent to live with muggles."

For a moment he had the urge to say 'they prefer non-magical people.' It was astonishing how quickly that had become a habit; but the boy was right, Dursleys deserved no such respect.

"No, he hasn't," Lichfield corrected for the record before continuing. "I actually met the muggles in question," he said with a very dissatisfied look on his face, "but that's another story, and if you want any of those you're going to have to do something for me."

"I'll sit on the story I was going to write on him today," Rita was quick to say. "A little fluff piece, but sure to make the front page; nothing would sell papers like he would," she said as she began her pitch in earnest, hoping that she could save it. "Just a playful little piece about a day out shopping with his little girlfriend before attending a belated birthday party with his _many_ friends at Hogwarts. Though it would really go over well if I perhaps 'oversaw' a little chaste kiss before they left? You know; first love and all that."

"Cute," he said dryly. "That makes me feel all warm and fuzzy."

That wouldn't have been a bad story to get out there if they had needed any good press, but with everything that kid was about to face he deserved to have one area of his life that was private.

"Why would you want to print a slop story like that for," he asked, "when the truth is so much more brutal and fun?"

That got Rita Skeeter's eyes to pop.

"And you'd tell me the truth on that?" she asked greedily as she groped for her quill again.

Lichfield held up his hand to stop her.

"In time," Lester agreed, before pointing at the quill and Rita's hand inched away from it again. "You play by my rules and you'll hear all the sordid details from someone who knows them all. Of course, you'll never hear them from me," he said meaningfully.

"Of course," she agreed with a smile that showed her gold teeth. "Of course, of course. It wouldn't do to taint someone as well-connected, principled, and–"

"–Ruthless as I am?" he finished for her, making her go a little green around the gills.

"I was going to say 'respected,' but that works too," Rita said with a pleasant smile. "It's only natural that you wouldn't want your name to appear in the paper – unless it's in its official capacity somehow," she added quickly so as not to exclude herself from being able to print any future story that may have him in it for a good reason. She may be odious, but she was smart.

"Good to see we have an understanding," Lester said with a nod. "I've got a couple of things for you that would be of immediate interest: how to follow up on Lockhart to turn those 'doubts' of yours into genuine concerns, then there's something happening tomorrow that'll blow everyone away – and you were curious about what's going on at Gringotts, right?" he asked knowingly.

"Absolutely," the woman said in a covetous whisper. "What do you want? Money? Bear your child? I'll do anything."

_'Merlin's messy morals, the woman's worse than I thought,_' Lichfield looked at her oddly. Still, that worked for him, but even if he were interested in what she offered, offering it like that would've made him not want it.

"Nothing so burdensome or so costly," Lester said politely. "A small percentage; I'm not greedy. Granting you such unparalleled and exclusive access to such a wealth of information," he said, stressing the words that were sure to make the reporter even more ready to go. "–Comes with a great deal of responsibility. I've got to know that you won't twist the stories into something they're not."

"Of course," Rita breathed, looking at him like he was the most desirous man in the country; it was damn freaky.

"Wonderful," he said, more than a little unnerved.

"Mipsy," Lester called. To the elf that popped up beside him he said, "My briefcase, please."

As quick as a flash his briefcase was on the table and from inside it he produced two documents thick with legal talk.

"What's all this?" Rita Skeeter asked, quickly scanning the parchment in case something lept out at her as provocative.

"I had a chat with someone in our Legal department and it turns out one of them knew a good deal about the laws around publishing," Lester said with a gleam in his own eye now. "That's a binding exclusivity contract with a non-disclosure agreement on you for your sources and stiff penalties should you break it or use anything I give you out of context to imply anything that isn't true."

"Binding?" she asked shocked. "No reporter would ever agree to such an infringement on their liberties. You could make me write anything you wanted."

"No reporter has the reputation you do for twisting facts to fit the story you want to sell," Lichfield batted her Bludger back to her. "If you don't want the Binding to go active, don't break your word and force me to go to the Ministry to have them Bind you into retracting everything. That'll make us both look bad. Besides, what other reporter is going to have such a well-placed source walk up and hand them a crate full of Snitches?" he asked rhetorically.

"And with stories like I'm giving you," he continued on to say, "you're going to want to know that everything you print is true. This contract guarantees that I give you truthful information. So if any young reporter comes sniffing around looking for lies, you'll walk away smelling like roses. But you've got to stay away from the kid though," Lichfield said forcefully. "He deserves to have a private life, even with everything else going public."

Luckily for Lester he had opted not to know certain tiny details about the first story he was going to give her so he could imply heavily and still claim to believe what he was telling was the truth. It could well be true, not that she would particularly care; it was sure to boost circulation and any reason for a correction would just expand the scandalous story even more.

Rita looked down at the parchments again, this time seeing the opportunity they held and no doubt weighing it against permanently putting the Boy-Who-Lived tantalizingly out of reach. That girl of his was right though, Lester saw that now. The Boy-Who-Lived had to die.

"And you can guarantee these stories are explosive and accurate?" she asked.

"They're jaw-droppingly shocking, morally outrageous, and completely world-changing," Lester said teasingly. "And every word of it is true. Wouldn't you like to be the one to give the world the real story of Harry Potter?" he asked twirling a Blood Quill between his fingers.

"You're damn right I would," she said, plucking the quill out of his hands and making her mark on both copies of the contract. "Magical signatures alright, since anonymity is an issue?"

"Works for me," he nodded, taking the quill to make his scratch while she signed with her magic. Only blood and magic were needed for the Ministry to Bind anyone if it came to that, so using no names was a nice precaution. When they were done, he called Mipsy again to take his copy to the office.

"So? Tell me everything," Rita prompted, placing the Quick-Quotes Quill back to her lips again.

"You need a new quill," Lester said, plucking it away again and tossing it back at the handbag from whence it came. "Using that one's lazy and makes you look untrustworthy. Use mine," he offered, producing a small quill and ink set.

"Those are horribly mundane," she tsked. "I haven't had to use one since I started out."

"Oh," Lester said, feigning the rediscovery of a long forgotten memory. "That's right; you started out as a court reporter, didn't you? I think I read somewhere that you covered the trial for Sirius Black."

"If you want to call it that," she dismissed with a wave. "It was over in a flash, everyone knew he was guilty. I'm not quite sure how it even started, I think we were there for something else," the woman said curiously. "You know what they say about Memories, 'To really remember you have to dive in,' and who has time for that?" she asked. "Anyway, it launched my career."

"I'd love to get that memory from you, on behalf of the Family," Lester said. "I'm sure the boy will want to see the man who betrayed his parents taken down for himself one day. And as someone who met him a time or two, I'd be interested in seeing it too," he said honestly. "Actually, that brings to mind another enticing story – that's still connected to the boy," he added quickly lest she get antsy. "I uncovered it when looking into other things and I think it'll really prime the public for what's to come."

Rita looked at him for a moment before speaking.

"If it's suitably salacious, you've got yourself a deal."

"I knew I'd like working with you," he said with a mischievous grin. "But I'm going to need you to do some things for me. It's got to run in tomorrow's _Daily Prophet_ and you have to make sure that no one around the individual gets their copies until – say, ten o'clock?"

The corners around her mouth tightened, the woman didn't like making promises.

"I'll see what I can do," Rita said. "But it has to be good."

He nodded.

"Tell me," Lester said conspiratorially. "What do you know about Ida Beeman?"

.o0O0o.

Lying on her bed, Ginny beat her fists and drummed her feet against the mattress as hard and as fast as she could. Life was so unfair! Harry got to come and go as he pleased, spending two days in a row having a grand time in Diagon Alley with whirlwind shopping sprees, adventures at the bank, getting to look at all the best Quidditch gear money could buy, having all the ice cream and sweets that he could eat, and getting to meet all sorts of interesting people. Meanwhile she was alone and unwanted and the most exciting thing that's happened to her was that elf-thing of his falling on her head!

Not even his elf crashing the car had been enough to keep him here. How could he let him crash the car and not end up grounded for life? What did it matter if he was a renter or not? He still stayed here and ate their food, and he'd be as good as a member of the family once she went out with him. Surely that counted enough for them to make him stay when she didn't want him to go. Even having him beaten and bruised and needing to be nursed back to health after a nasty Quidditch accident would've been better than having him go, because at least then she'd be the one caring for him rather than letting him go off with the enemy, Hermione Granger.

The girl had probably spent all day holding his hand, batting her eyelashes and sighing, and hanging on his every word while holding herself just an inch away from leaning forward for their first real kiss. That's exactly what she would have done. She must have daydreamed and rehearsed all those things a thousand times or more in the last year alone – even playing out little scenes from the books where the damsel was in distress and he must take her under his protection and provide for her and give her all the fabulous clothes and jewelry as befits her station as his One True Love.

Of course she had never been alone in those daydreams; Luna was always there too as her maid of honor, honorary sister, or even sometimes as another wife of Harry's – though if her mother knew that she would have called her a scarlet woman for sure. But Harry was special though so he deserved to have two wives, and besides, this way they'd really be like sisters.

Luna had never cared for the Boy-Who-Lived though, that was why she had let her borrow her mother's Harry books in the first place. Actually reading them and enjoying them as you were meant to was the proper thing to do anyway. Who cared about the tiny little things that might be slightly wrong here or there, let alone want to read a book that pointed all of them out? That was just silly.

And the worst part was that the more she thought of it the more like the Harry from the books he was actually starting to seem. He was humble, and modest, and didn't let his great wealth and fame go to his head, but used it for good deeds. And even in his dealings with _that girl_ he had been the perfect gentleman. He hadn't bragged to his friends and rightly played down both expectations and the significance of the events, choosing instead to keep those emotional treasures in the Vault of his heart since he valued them more than all the gold in Gringotts. It hadn't been his fault that her brothers had been children about it.

_'But he's focusing on the wrong girl!'_ she thought again, giving her mattress another hit.

Why was she the only one to see this? Why must Ginny Weasley be the one to suffer so? Why couldn't she ever get a break! She couldn't even be up in her room being righteously angry in peace anymore either after what she had just found out.

How had she been expected to know that the girl had lost her mother only a few years ago and could do with some more friends? Well, Harry hadn't expected them to know that but he had made sure that elf-thing passed that bit of information along when it asked if 'Mister Harry Potter' could invite 'a friend' over for dinner tonight, but now she felt horrible for even thinking that bad things should happen to her, if only to get her away from Harry, which made things even more unjust.

Of course her mother had been so devastated for 'the poor girl' as to agree right away, which had sent her right up to her room refusing to come out. Well, she would be refusing to come out as soon as anyone noticed that she was gone. Ginny didn't want to have anything to do with whatever was going to happen tonight. Her mother would fawn all over the girl, Harry would be all caring and sympathetic, and by the end of the night they'd probably be promised to each other and she'd practically be an honorary Weasley. In one fell swoop she'd take her last remaining distinction as the only girl away and snatch everything she's ever wanted out of her grasp!

_'Mum would probably have the wedding here at the Burrow too,_' Ginny thought grumpily.

She'd dress Hermione up in the same wedding dress she had worn all those years ago with Dad and Ginny would be stuck sharing a room with her, having to listen as she practiced her new name: Mrs. Hermione Potter, and stand right next to her in the ceremony as the make-shift maid of honor and disgruntled little sister as she married the boy that was rightfully hers.

_'It was just not fair,_' she thought sorrowfully. _'I saw him first._'

.o0O0o.

As she watched Harry bid a temporary farewell to the oldest Weasleys as they disappeared through the archway and down Diagon Alley, her stomach finally started to unknit from the uncomfortable situation they had stumbled into earlier. She was still preoccupied with beating herself up about everything though and her thoughts were a complete jumble.

Hermione had to stop doing this to herself. She had known what Harry's overall purpose was in talking with Luna, had known it before they had talked to Professor McGonagall about her, so him continuing to pursue it when their first plan fell through shouldn't have surprised her; she knew how doggedly he did things when he put his mind to it.

Suddenly inviting her over for dinner had thrown her though, but it might not have been so bad if it hadn't come so soon after she had offered to kiss him. That sudden spike of fear welling up inside her like some ridiculous chest monster ready to rear up and explode out of her mouth and launch itself at the other girl was not something she was comfortable with. That was not the kind of person she wanted to be. Thankfully that hadn't happened or the situation would have been even worse.

Luna had told her that her mother had passed away but she hadn't gotten the chance to tell Harry about it in private yet. How do you tell someone something like that without it putting a damper on everything or color how they interact with that person? Besides, with Harry no longer needing to even broach the topic of paying for Hogwarts and just going over to meet the strange girl he had heard about, Hermione hadn't thought Luna's mother would've been brought up at all, or if she was Luna would have done it herself. How was she to know that that would be a key part of the question that Harry had wanted to ask her father?

Mr. Lovegood's face… the way it had crumpled up the instant his wife was mentioned… That was her fault; if she had spoken to Harry beforehand then it wouldn't have happened. The look of absolute heartbreak – she didn't know if she'd ever forget it. Was that what love did to you? Even when things went right between two people was that what was waiting for them in the end, that kind of dejected loneliness and despair that seemed to consume your very soul?

But perhaps that kind of visceral response was the exception rather than the rule. Maybe it was only those unlucky enough to actually find the kind of truly deep, meaningful, and abiding connection to another person that everyone strives for that would suffer such a fate. If the situation had been reversed, her own father would no doubt be depressed for quite some time. That's just how he is, he's a naturally caring person, but she didn't want to think that he'd be as completely crushed as Mr. Lovegood was though. And if anything could prompt an actual emotional response from her mother she'd hope to find it short of her father dying to know whether it was actually possible.

And while Luna had been able to turn things around after a while by telling her father that he was being attacked by the blibbering-humtinger again, Hermione doubted that things would be so easy for herself. Harry had been rightfully distraught at bringing up such a painful subject unknowingly, even going so far as to include Mr. Lovegood in his impromptu dinner invitation he had been hoping to okay with Mrs. Weasley.

But while his concern had been wholly for their well-being, hers had been split. Of course she would have loved to be able to go to see how Harry and Luna would manage after her father's breakdown, and to be there for them if they needed it, but a large part of her had been worrying over Harry, and not for any reason that Hermione had been expecting. That Marjorie girl had said that she had "got it bad" when it came to Harry, but watching Mr. Lovegood break down in tears from just the mention of his late wife let her know exactly how bad that it was.

When Harry had been in the hospital wing after stopping You-Kn-_Voldemort_ from getting the Stone, she had come to realize how damaging losing Harry that way would have been for her. It would have been like her life had been mangled up. After experiencing what life was like with friends – and yes, there being a boy that she kind of liked – going back to the way it had been before would have been terrible, and there would have been no way to know if she'd ever have that kind of thing again.

But that had been before. Now, after all their letters, having actually started to get to know him as something other than just friends, and experiencing the ups and downs of being together for the last two days as a perhaps-technically-official-but-still-sort-of-debatable couple, Hermione knew that she'd be a complete wreck if anything happened to Harry now. On the one hand it seemed so natural for it to happen – after all, this was Harry she was talking about – but on the other it was absolutely terrifying.

She had never thought that someone could have that much – control wasn't the right word – influence over her like that, and that was troubling, but not even realizing it was happening and desperately not wanting the source of it to go away was downright terrifying. Was it just some sense of self-preservation and urge to avoid feeling the utter devastation that would come if Harry left that had her reacting like that or was there something more?

There was certainly the possibility that he might like Katie or Luna in some way she couldn't compete with, but it felt like more of an irrational fear. The last thing she needed was a green eyed monster about a green eyed boy.

Looking at it logically from a distance, Harry only interacted with Katie when it came to Quidditch practice, and even then the parts they played had nothing to do with each other. Meanwhile he hadn't even met Luna before today, didn't know anything about her, was left just as bewildered at virtually everything that came out of the girl's mouth as she was, and had only initiated contact with her to try and rekindle her friendship with Ginny.

And not that she had intended them to, but it seemed to Hermione that all of her actions thus far had expressed an obvious interest in Harry; an interest that he was no doubt aware of. Not only had she told him in writing and received the same in return but his actions clearly said that he reciprocated as well, so why was she reacting like that when it came to other girls?

Their potential suitability for a romantic partnership seemed to be the last thing on Harry's mind, if it had even occurred to him in the first place. That really left her with only one conclusion: she was letting her own lack of self-confidence poison things with Harry by making everyone else around her into a threat.

She hated that. She had never gotten on well with other girls to begin with, which had made her pre-Hogwarts life a rather frustrating experience since everyone in her school had been girls. The last thing she needed though was to turn all of them into enemies by being a harpy to everyone around her. But how was she supposed to get over that lack of confidence?

This would have been so much easier if there had been other male-female dynamics to observe when she was younger. For the first time she was mentally reprimanding her parents for denying her that opportunity, which was a shame since she quite liked her old school otherwise and missed seeing her teacher-friends there.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked suddenly, drawing her from her thoughts; she'd been too distracted to see him approach.

His green eyes were full of concern, turning her bowels into jelly as this anxiously nervous feeling tingled around her like she had the urge to jump. The solution was obvious, but Hermione didn't know if she had it in her. If anything was going to demolish that last bit of confidence killing reserve it'd be that, and that would damn her even more – not that she was interested in being saved.

"I'm fine," she lied, or at least exaggerated. She couldn't believe that she was going to do this; her hands were starting to feel numb.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry for that thing with Luna," he said, looking abashed.

"I'm the one that should apologize," Hermione corrected him. "You didn't know that about her mother and I let you walk into that blindly."

"No, that's not what I meant," he said as he ran a hand through his hair the way he did when he was embarrassed. "I meant for not asking you over before I asked her," Harry explained, turning that stomach jelly into pleasantly warm goo. "I just – there didn't seem any way to bring it up besides saying it straight out as soon as I could."

"They do seem to be rather unpredictable when it comes to conversation," she said with a smile that he'd no doubt take to be connected to the Lovegoods. It wasn't. Harry just admitted that she was his first priority, at least in that department.

"Besides, it's completely understandable why you wouldn't have asked me first," she continued on to say, effectively letting him off the hook, though part of her hoped it wouldn't be a common occurrence. "You would have had to know that my dad and I would be leaving soon."

"Right," Harry said, looking like he didn't want her to go any more than she did. She was definitely going to do it now; how could she not?

"I'm just glad he let her come over," Harry continued, though that sparked concern in her mind as to what the night would be like for Mr. Lovegood without his daughter there now that his late wife had been brought to mind. "What'd you say to Dobby though?" he asked.

"Just something for him to say that'd guarantee that Mrs. Weasley would say yes," Hermione said with a bit of a sneaky grin.

If Dobby said it the way she had phrased it then her motherly heartstrings would've been pulled and ready to comfort her when she arrived. The instant Luna appeared though she'd realize her mistake and whatever disagreement she may have had with the girl's late mother would disappear and likely see her take to Luna even more because of the loss.

_'Or she could react like Mr. Lovegood,_' she thought with a bit of panic.

When the idea had popped into her head to have Dobby blur the identity of who Harry was inviting over, it had been a spur of the moment thing to try to make the Lovegoods feel better; she hadn't thought that it might make Mrs. Weasley feel worse. What if the surprise of Luna showing up and the shock of realizing that it was Mrs. Lovegood who had died caused Mrs. Weasley to feel horrible, as if that fight had somehow led to her death?

Instead of a cathartic experience where the Lovegoods and the Weasleys draw together because of a loss, she could be setting Ron's mother up to collapse under the weight of guilt. And what if she didn't react negatively at all? What if she was the kind of person who likes to say 'I told you so.'? Instead of making anything better it could set up a chain reaction to cause an already bad situation go off like a huge emotional bomb! What had she been thinking, doing this when she hadn't met the woman? This was a horrible idea.

"You're not fine," Harry said, catching wind that something could be very wrong.

"No, I'm not," Hermione agreed. "I could've caused something really bad to go wrong."

Once the situation was explained, Harry did his best to be supportive.

"I don't think she'd react like that," he said reassuringly. "She's bound to ask about you though when I show up and you don't–"

"Then you can explain the miscommunication, and tell her who's really coming over and see how she responds," she finished for him as she started to breathe again.

"I don't think she'd take back the permission to come over after she'd given it," Harry continued with his brow furrowed in thought. Who would have thought that serious critical thinking could make him more attractive? "So I think the worst that would happen is that she's unhappy through dinner, but surely she'd see it's better for Ginny to have a friend."

"Of course she would," Hermione said, trying to convince herself and hoping for the best out of a woman she'd only seen once or twice.

Suddenly Harry broke out in a grin.

"What is it?" she asked, eager for a bit of good news.

"I just remembered; there's no way she could be unhappy tonight," he said excitedly. "I told Percy to keep Bill and Charlie a secret. She'll be so happy to see them that she won't care who else is there!"

Hermione heaved a huge sigh of relief.

"Now I wish I could be there just to see her face when they all show up, just to be sure I didn't ruin everything," she said as she shrugged a bit to work out the tension that entered her shoulders.

"Yeah. Anyway," Harry said in that uncertain way people had when they didn't know what to say, or perhaps had something they didn't want to say.

It was a bit of a shock to realize that they were now standing by the fireplace; she hadn't even noticed they had moved. With a lurch in her stomach she knew what that meant: Harry was about to leave.

_'This is it,_' she thought, now more numb and nervous than ever.

Hermione flexed her fingers to try to get some feeling back in them. Somehow this felt just like being on a diving board, only the worst thing that could happen there was that she drowns. That wasn't like kissing a boy on the lips at all, so why should they feel the same?

_'It's now or never,_' she said to herself, trying to will her body into making that leap. She was going to do it…

_'On three,_' she thought. _'One,_' she breathed. _'Two… thre–_'

"So we ready to go?" her father's voice cut in happily, bringing everything to a screeching halt.

_'Why did he have to be here!'_ Hermione thought maddeningly, turning to shoot a shocked and scandalized look at the man.

"If we stay any longer, Mister In-Need-Of-Dentures is going to charge us for another day and you have all of our Fun Bricks," the cartoonish dentist explained with an odd look, completely missing her look of damnation.

"I'm just saying goodbye to Harry," she said in a _'could you please go somewhere else?'_ kind of way.

"Oh, okay then," he said with a smile, and then proceeded to stand there holding their things and watching them.

She could sense growing embarrassment coming from Harry and she gave her father her most _'I can't believe you're doing this to me_' look.

"What?" her father asked, with a curious look on his face. "I can't leave; I'd never find this place again, remember?"

Hermione could have screamed or throttled whoever's idea that was. Why couldn't they hide this place with some kind of fake storefront that no one would ever need to go into like any sensible person would? That way they wouldn't need to hide it from muggles at all. She could have screamed again when a third look the man ignored gave them no increased privacy. He was being such a – such a _Dad_.

Hermione was not going to let that beat her though; she went right up to Harry and gave him a nice long hug. It might have been kind of awkward and embarrassed, but he did return it.

"I'll see you soon, Harry," she said before she released him, though she knew that she'd probably be writing him as soon as she got home.

The embarrassment must've been too much for him to do anything but mumble a response. After he had she turned and stalked to her father, grabbed her things, and left the pub in an outraged huff to wait by the car. How could parents be so dense!

.o0O0o.

Ginny lay moodily on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

She'd been up here for what felt like hours, though if she looked at her clock it'd probably say that five minutes had passed.

It was boring being obstinate on your own.

You couldn't play chess or exploding snap without somebody else there to play against.

It made her wonder if Tom knew anything about chess.

Even if he did, he probably wouldn't be able to do it in his head well enough to make it interesting – or whatever passed for a head when you were a book – and she could never remember how the weird move calling system worked for it.

Writing to Tom to complain had been fine at first, but then all that writing made her sleepy and you can't send the message that you're purposely excluding someone if they think you're just taking a nap.

Besides, he hadn't been of any help at all. He was still of the opinion that she should let Harry have this first little romance so that she could be there to comfort him when it fell apart. Boys were so stupid sometimes.

Ginny cocked her head to one side as she heard someone on the stairs. It had to be Percy; he was the only one with such rapid and prissy footfalls. It'd be just like him to come home and rush straight upstairs to write to his girlfriend. Say what you want about his priggishness, he was a dutiful boyfriend.

She could've wished that Harry was less dutiful though, at least when it came to her. No doubt he'd be back soon too and then – No! She didn't want her here, not at the Burrow. This was her home, her place, her family, and Harry belonged to her. She had no right to be here when she didn't want her there.

It didn't matter though, she was coming anyway.

Maybe she should write all of her frustrations out in Tom again and sleep until tomorrow – or next week – or until it was time to go to Hogwarts, she didn't care. What's one day or another to her anyway?

Ginny could just see what she'd write now: _'Oh Tom, the day had started so wonderfully – and then an elf butt landed on me and everything went wrong._' She hoped it was its head rather than its butt, but so far she wasn't having the best of luck. It made her wonder if elf butts were unlucky somehow; Luna would have known.

She should have done what she had wanted to from the beginning and just gone flying, though taking Harry's broom would only have made him hate her more. The ancient brooms that Bill and Charlie had left behind were barely fit to fly anymore and probably only good for sweeping out the shed. Still, one of them might have gotten her to Luna's house; she still knew the way.

_'And wouldn't she be surprised when she showed up at her window!'_ she thought.

But unless they could convince Luna's mum not to tell her mum then the whole visit would be cut short. And then she'd either be grounded for the rest of her life or all the brooms they had would be turned into a bonfire for the elf to dance around again.

An indecipherable higher-pitched greeting from below some time later marked her traitorous mother welcoming Harry back. It wasn't fair that she treated him like that, not when he was dating somebody else. That should be saved for when he was _her_ boyfriend, not given out like that when he was with Hermione.

The slow-and-steady _creeeak, creeeak, creeeak,_ of the stairs was the only warning Ginny had. Only her mother creaked like that; but she always called from the foot of the stairs. As fast as she could she rolled off the bed and scrambled to shove her trunk in front of her door and sat on it.

"Ginny?" her mother asked tentatively as she made the light triple-knock she always used unless she was mad.

She didn't respond.

The doorknob turned and tried to open, and she didn't respond to that either.

"Ginny, please open the door," her mother said softly.

Even the sound of her mother's voice didn't sound right today. It sounded like the few times that her mother had been wrong about something and hurt her feelings and had to come and apologize to her. And that had always made her want to cry.

_'She has no right to make me cry right now!'_ Ginny thought as tears welled in her eyes._ 'I'm not the one who's done anything wrong!'_

"I'm not coming out!" she sniffled.

"Ginny, please," her mother softly pleaded.

Ginny screeched as loud and as long and as high as she could; her mother always hated that.

"It's import–"

Ginny screeched again, this time through her tears. Why won't her mother just leave her alone?

_"Youhavetocomeoutsometime,_" the woman said quickly.

"When pigs fly!" she sniffled again before covering her ears and singing the Holyhead Harpies Fight Song as loud as she could. By the time she was finished her mother was gone.

_'Good,_' Ginny thought. _'Let her be all sad and alone and see how she likes it._'

Maybe more time being sad would make her mother act like she should.

Ginny scrubbed her eyes dry and pulled her knees up under her chin, curling up while sitting on her trunk.

As time dragged on, more and more images of the date that should have been hers floated through her mind. It wasn't the shopping, or the clothes, or anything like that she particularly missed; she would've been happy without any of that.

The Hopefuls would've been nice; meeting all of those new people would've been fun. She just really wanted someone to pay attention to her, even for a little while. She would've been happy just sitting in the Leaky Cauldron holding hands and sharing a smile, she didn't even care with whom. They just had to be nice.

Chasing after Harry was silly, she knew that. But if she caught him then everyone in the world would know who she was. Then she would be on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ and girls would look at her all green with envy. They'd cut out the picture and keep it in their bottom drawer, wishing they were her. It'd be the closest she'd ever get to being a Quidditch star like Gwenog Jones.

But now that was all going to be for Hermione to have and she'd be left as one of the faceless others. She was going to be stuck as "the littlest Weasley" for the rest of her life, she just knew it. What a pathetic little thing to be. She hated it.

Why couldn't something just happen to change everything? That was always the best part of the books, when things just suddenly change like that for someone and their life's never the same. Wasn't that what storybook magic was – miraculous change that brought out the best for people? She'd give anything to have that happen to her. But it was never going to happen, not for the littlest Weasley.

_Tap tap-tap Tap TAP Tap tap!_ came the jaunty little knock on the door. How could she not hear a single creak on the person's way up? Everyone made a creak at some point and Ginny knew them all. And what kind of knock was that? It wasn't the knocks she knew from her brothers and Harry would never knock on her door – and certainly not a light jaunty knock like that.

Then it came to her. That was a girl's knock. That was _her_ knock.

_'How dare she knock on my door like we're friends! I don't know her, and I don't want to know her. I want her to go away and leave me alone!'_

Mouth open to yell through the door, Ginny stopped. This was the girl who couldn't even stand up to a troll. It was time to show her what a true Gryffindor would do when faced with ugly opposition: charge in and show them who was boss. Face set in a Keeper's scowl, Ginny pulled her trunk out of the way and wrenched open the door.

She stood stunned. The person she found standing there wasn't the one she'd thought, but how?

_'Was this storybook magic?'_ she thought numbly. And was it her or for someone else?

"Luna?" she asked, still in shock.

"Hello," the girl said dreamily. "I'm glad to see your mother's wrackspurt infestation's cleared up. She was ever-so nice."

"What are you doing here?" Ginny asked.

"I'm talking to you," Luna replied. "Have you caught her wrackspurts?"

"No, but... Why are you here?" she asked. Not that Ginny wasn't glad she was here, but it didn't make any sense.

"Oh, Harry invited me," the other girl explained, "but the way the dirigible plums were blowing in the breeze when we got home told me that I should come early."

"So you're a Hopeful?" Ginny asked, her mind coming back to herself.

"I try to be. It's the best way to live I think," Luna smiled.

"So he invited you and Hermione?" she asked.

"No, she couldn't come," Luna replied. "She's a bit rumbly in the pebble department."

"Then why would he–?"

Harry had asked her mum if he could invite someone over, a girl whose mother had died. But Luna was here. Mrs. Lovegood wasn't... She couldn't be– She _couldn't_ be! She just couldn't! Not to Luna!

She was hugging Luna before she even knew she'd moved.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," was all she seemed able to say as she sniffled once again.

It just couldn't have been to Luna, she was her friend. And then another thing struck her.

"I lost your mother's books," she said.

"Oh that's alright," Luna said as she patted her hair. "I don't think she needs them anymore."

That got Ginny crying. Somehow she knew this was all her fault.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Surprisingly, the responses to my experiment last chapter were mostly positive – mainly in the "good" to "mixed" range – so I'd say it was a moderate success. Don't worry; I'm not planning on that being the standard way of doing things from here on out. I'm of the "mixed" opinion myself and this chapter would've been impossible to pull off like that. Looking back now, some of those transitions were as clumsy as a drunken Tonks so I'll either spend more time polishing those next time or come up with some other little cue to signify a shift like that if I ever need to do that kind of thing again.

One note on an odd turn of phrase in the last scene: the term "bottom drawer" is apparently the British equivalent of a hope chest, and since some people are kind of picky about those things (Merlin knows I would be), I decided to go with the UK term.

Thanks for reading.


	24. It's a Day As Black As Night

**AN****:** These last two chapters have had a much denser, more thematic way of connecting everything together – which not only makes them longer but more time-intensive to produce. So I thank you for your patience.

.o0O0o.

The shallow metal basin cast a mottled silvery-grey light on the smooth walls around him that faded to blue at the furthest corners of the tiny cell-like compartment. It often gave the heavily scarred auror the impression that he was sitting underwater, but Moody barely saw it. If there was one spot in the entire country better protected than his home or office it was where he was, and now he could finally let himself take a moment to think things through.

_'You'll want to look into that, discreetly,_' Lichfield had said.

Alastor thought he had readied himself for all the possibilities, but that had been before he dove into the memory. He had expected to see another facet of his case against Dumbledore, some sort of character assassination, as if his old friend had any character left to kill. How could you defend someone, even in your own head, when everything makes you realize just how little you actually knew about them?

He hadn't ruled out seeing something to show that Albus had knowingly sanctioned the mistreatment the boy had suffered at his relatives' hands, but Alastor hadn't expected the retirement-killing scene that played out before him. It wasn't the final nail in Dumbledore's coffin, that crucial bit of evidence to show that he had intended to abandon the boy the entire time, but it did give his reasons for doing so a slightly more positive interpretation: for the boy's own good.

He knew; Dumbledore knew that Voldemort wasn't dead, but how long he knew Alastor couldn't say. If he had known – or at least suspected – the entire time then hiding the boy away somewhere that no one in their world would look would've been a very prudent idea. Sticking him with those relatives would've given things a chance to die down, for full criminal inquiries to take place, and for as many Death Eaters to be rounded up and thrown into Azkaban as possible.

That rationale wouldn't survive long though, not beyond the first few months, at most. It certainly wasn't enough to keep him there for more than ten years; not with muggles like them. A few days, a week or two at most, then you take the kid, change his hair, change his eyes, change his name, hide the scar, and give him to a family you can trust to raise him as their own. Nymphadora and her family were the right sort, and distant relatives besides.

But if Albus hadn't known, if you gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed that he had only learned that the mad man had survived when looking into that Defense professor's death two months gone, then why had he stuck the boy with those people so long in the first place? Was it really just to steal the kid's money? And even if it was, then why hadn't he reached out to him with this new information yet and leave that bit out? Why hadn't Albus sought him out, reformed the Order of the Phoenix and had him start recruiting members from within the Auror Office?

All of the answers Alastor had come up with troubled him greatly. Either Albus didn't think there was a problem, he didn't trust him, or he was waiting for something to happen. But what was the man waiting for, for Voldemort to return to a flesh-and-blood body? For him to kill the boy so that he could use him as a convenient symbol to rally the country around? Or was he mad enough to think the child could take him on himself?

He and Albus hadn't seen eye-to-eye on everything back then but at least the man had given a rationale for his positions, flawed as they were. For a man as smart and as proud as Albus, he wouldn't like being proven wrong, and every time you turned around you saw signs that he had been wrong time and again these last ten years. Being generous with Dumbledore's motivations still left him in a very petty state. Pouting in his lofty high office and stubbornly refusing to admit the truth was hardly the way for the most revered statesman in the country to start countering the looming threat of Voldemort.

The Order had been prohibited from using lethal means of taking down Death Eaters for purely political reasons during the war. If they used lethal force to kill their enemies, while they might remove some from the battlefield permanently, it might provoke others to join the pureblood cause or to lend them political support. And if they couldn't show themselves to be different than the Death Eaters – some might say 'better than them' – then how could the Order gain the support they'd need within the Ministry to sway them to their side?

There had been another baffling reason Dumbledore had given to him in private once the Ministry had finally entered the fight and passed measures giving aurors the power to kill rather than capture.

_'The wizarding world is a beautiful and delicate thing,_' Albus had said. _'Any slight change, some hint of compassion, might be enough to give those who fight against us pause to consider the weight of their actions. Who are we to deny them that chance at redemption?'_

His response had been terse._ 'We're the ones those assholes are trying to kill._'

Albus had never mentioned it again but when you think on it, who was he – the buoyantly beneficent Dumbledore – to decide for all of them whether they should be willing to sacrifice their lives so that their killers could have a second chance to grow up and learn that it wasn't nice to kill people you disagreed with? For every Death Eater that had died or had been captured there were two or three that had slipped away, and all of them had left a string of dead in their wake. You don't do that and suddenly change because someone offered you a hug or a kiss.

Even a Dementor's Kiss hadn't been enough to change some of their minds. They had gone to Oblivion, willingly sacrificing their souls to their jailors rather than turn away from their beliefs. Those were the souls, the lives, that Dumbledore had valued so highly, higher than the people who had fought for what was right, higher than the lives of their orphaned children.

The Death Eaters with sense had lied to get out of trouble he had no doubt, and there must've been someone receptive very high up that was sympathetic or just as delusional as Albus was to believe the crap they were selling. Alastor had been too busy and too easily brushed aside to find out whom, but he hoped it wasn't Albus who had let it happen. He hadn't seen the true extent of the man's delusional philosophy at the time, but how can you trust a man like that once you see it?

It was a day as black as night when Dumbledore became the untrustworthy one, but that's where they were and that meant everything fell to him. How many others would've lived if he had done what he should have all those years ago and used the deaths and disappearances to expose the flaws in Albus's reasoning and wrestle control of the Order away from him? Would Dorcas Meadows still be alive he had done that? Edgar Bones? Marlene McKinnon? The Potters? And how many muggles would still be wandering about today if he hadn't been so blind?

_'If you can't trust Dumbledore, then who is there to trust?' _

That was the most chilling thought of all. He might have been blind before he lost his eye, but he couldn't afford to remain so now that that new eye was opened. Alastor spun his magical eye around on general principle, glimpsing the deluge of color and motion through it. It could be painful at times, having all that information magically shoved into your head, but he had long ago learned to filter out what he didn't need, for the most part.

If Albus wasn't ready – wasn't fit – to do what had to be done, then he had to do it himself. If Lichfield's accusations against him turned out to be nothing more nefarious than financial bungling of an old man too naïve to know that vaults don't refill themselves then he'd still be welcome as long he had actual information to contribute. Dumbledore certainly wouldn't be in charge though. This wouldn't be some declawed, frilly phoenix gallivanting about and making a brave show of causing mischief either. He would have to do things his own way, in his own time, with his own people, but who was he to pick?

Alastor opened himself to the barrage of images coming from his magical eye and the real world paled in comparison to what he saw. Gone was the silvery glow on dark walls as his world became superimposed by the golden runic dinner plate bordered by translucent white walls. Slightly widening his view to what was around him, he could see the multiple other translucent compartments that shared the same space he did, all slightly out of touch from where he was. A certain silvery object caught his attention; he would have to remember to take his cloak when he left.

Pushing his sight through the translucent walls, rushing through his office to the cubical farm beyond, his eye sought out the faces he knew. Pinky –_ 'Damn Lichfield and his nicknames,_' the man who'd been "Mad-eye" long before he had lost his eye groused – _Nymphadora_ was returning from her training classes, face flushed from the effort she put in. Distant relation to the boy or not, she couldn't be involved; too young. He wasn't going to have any half-trained, idealistic young people die because some old man thought he knew what was best, even if that old man was him.

Behind the girl was Kingsley Shacklebolt, a solid man and capable; loyal, and diligent. He was good at training new recruits and didn't cut them any slack, but Kingsley didn't strike him as a leader, not where it counted. Personable and well-liked, no doubt he'd get on well with those above him and be able to play the political game that started in the upper reaches of any department, but he had one large drawback as far as Alastor was concerned: he was Dumbledore's man. And even if he was skilled in combat, if Shacklebolt had his way Dumbledore's philosophy of violence would infect the entire office, turning them all into kittens wearing mittens when they needed to be manticores.

Kingsley, like so many others, had been raised in Dumbledore's shadow, taught from an early age to always look up to the man. It would take a lot to change that; being the last great war hero – if you discounted all the time he spent sitting on his hands against Grindelwald, which everyone did – "the only man You-Know-Who ever feared," and the only Hogwarts Headmaster most people could name, Albus was practically a cultural force. If confronted with the reality of Voldemort lingering on in some form Shacklebolt's first response would be to run and see what Dumbledore thought of it, which was something Alastor wanted to avoid.

His vision darted to a few others before passing through another wall to settle on Rufus Scrimgeour. If he was pressed to name one, Alastor would still say that Scrimgeour had been his best student; as well he should be since Rufus was the person he had hand-picked to run the office when Harold Minchum, the Minister before last, had tried to foist the job on him. Maybe he should have taken it; taking Scrimgeour out of the field had stuck one of their best men behind a desk just when they had needed ten more like him out there every day.

He had taught Rufus to throw away the rulebook if you had to when it came to getting results because your enemy didn't have rules, but putting him in charge of others had made the man cling to that book worse than a Seventh Year on their way to N.E.W.T.s. It had ruined a good fighter and turned the office into something mechanistic, and instead of minting more fighters just like him they had gotten softer and softer by all the coddling. Rufus would be a good fighter to have in his corner if the time ever came to take on Voldemort himself, just like Kingsley, but right now his book would tell him to take this straight to the Minister.

Alastor's magical eye spun again, peering through all the space between him and Level 1, where he saw Cornelius Fudge sitting in a meeting with Lucius Malfoy and Deloris Umbridge behind a hazy screen against eavesdroppers. Malfoy was a Death Eater for sure, and Umbridge a likely sympathizer; taking anything to Fudge would see him share it with them so that they could tell him what to do. Scrimgeour being out means he might have to do this without an official sanction, at least for now.

Retracting his vision back in, Alastor sought out the last face that might be of use, finally finding her on Level 2 between the Improper Use of Magic Office and the Wizengamot Administration Services. Withdrawing his eye from seeing more of Amelia Bones than Alastor had ever wanted to see, he tried to concentrate on any reason not to bring her into this. As head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, with titular control of the Auror Office, she seemed the logical choice to make if he wanted to do this with the pretense of legality.

She was a dyed in the wool litigator, though she gave the impression that she'd approve an off-the-books investigation of this kind if she had to. At first glance having most of her family wiped out by Voldemort the seemed to work in her favor, undoubtedly she wouldn't want to see the man make a return. Having her brother become involved in the Order of the Phoenix only to die and leave behind a daughter for her to raise could be problematic, though that redoubled his determination that no kids or young people would be involved.

Her taking an interest in the running of the Auror Office after leaving things in Scrimgeour's hands for so long would surely raise concerns, perhaps even getting the Minister involved, and then they'd be right where Alastor didn't want things to go. If he couldn't officially go off the books, and couldn't unofficially do the same, then there was nothing left to do but to toss everything aside and go off on his own, and that left him with few resources and very little to go on. There had to be another option.

Alastor had fought against and taken down dark wizards for longer than he cared to remember, and you couldn't do that without developing some sense of the enormity of the problem you faced. With his two prime sources of information, both Dumbledore and the boy, about to be locked in a very public battle with an intense amount of scrutiny on everyone around them, and any potential allies within the Ministry out of reach for the moment, his sense was telling him that he was dealing with the most laborious, most exhaustive, and most time-consuming endeavor he's ever come across.

He shoved the images from his eye away and scrubbed a gnarled hand across his ruined face. This was going to take forever and he would get nowhere quickly, especially not sitting where he was – but perhaps that could be an opportunity. Albus, Kingsley, Scrimgeour, and the others were sure to see any digging for information about the past as evidence of something going on under the surface, so perhaps sitting still and going quietly was just the thing he needed to keep them from suspecting that he was up to anything.

That kind of slow pace and low information would leave him mired in theorycrafting for the foreseeable future and that was exactly the kind of thing he hated; Alastor preferred to face his enemy head on. He was well known to hate it though, so privately pursuing it while publically doing nothing to signify a problem would disguise more than demiguise ever could. The only problem was that he was horrible at doing the theory himself; he'd forgotten more about the Dark Arts than most people ever learned. What he needed was someone as methodical, single-minded, and secretive as he was who could swim through any theory they got their hands on without ever drawing notice to themselves, and the likelihood of finding someone like that was–

Moody cursed himself for a fool before crawling over to draw the memory out of the pensieve and put it back in its vial. If it weren't for Lichfield and his fondness for nicknames he might have forgotten that Froggy was still alive. Then again, Alastor preferred to forget that entire floor existed. Eye or no eye, no kind of magic should work like that.

Once the memory was safe in the vial, the vial was snug in his mokeskin pouch, and the mokeskin pouch secure in a hidden pocket, Alastor opened himself up to his eye again to scrutinize every inch of his office for any evidence that it had been disturbed. Finding none, he pulled out a ring of seven keys and chose the second from the end. Reaching up, he managed to fit the key into a tiny hole near the ceiling and gave it a twist. With a hop, he pushed the roof of the compartment up, withdrew the key, and jumped again to grab the exposed edge.

With many a grunt and muttered curses, Alastor Moody emerged from the invisible cavernous hole next to a coatrack on the far side of his office. Rubbing his rib where the edge had dug in and flexing his amputated leg as he shut the lid, he knew that he'd have to lessen the depth of that part of his trunk; he wasn't a kid anymore. He'd think about passing this off and retiring anyway but if Lonely Lester and Froggy Saul could work themselves to death then he wasn't about to stop short, and he wasn't even one of the Lost.

Fumbling for the right key, he used his magical eye so he could find and reopen his Disillusioned trunk and expose another compartment within, drawing out a silvery invisibility cloak. Alastor paused for a moment, rethinking the wisdom of his next act. As much as he hated the politics that came with big cases he hated interpersonal drama even more; it needlessly complicated everything.

Dealing with Saul after being tipped off by Lichfield was going to be uncomfortable to say the least. The two men hated each other, or at least they did thirty-odd years ago and neither had seemed the type to let bygones be bygones; blaming a man for the death of your wife wasn't something anyone could just get over. To his knowledge neither had spoken to the other since, which was considerable since they were the last of the Lost left, so far as he could recall.

Lester would have expected him to keep this memory to his chest, maybe do some digging on his own and follow the normal mode of investigation; he wouldn't have expected him to go to Saul. That would mean no one else would likely glean that information either, even if they knew of everyone's past, which would keep the connection properly buried as long as they didn't contact each other again. It was a different place to start from than Albus's Order had last time around, to be sure, and he had the luxury of not having active Death Eaters to contend with, so if he had personal drama to handle instead he would just have to suck it up and move on.

Closing and locking his trunk, Alastor scanned the outside of his office before he shrunk down the invisible box until it was small enough to fit in his hand and stuck it to the underside of his chair. From his desk he withdrew a purple sheet of paper and scratched out a short vague message before tapping it with his wand to fold it into an aeroplane. Peering through his eye again to recheck that he wasn't about to be disturbed, Alastor disappeared under his invisibility cloak and tossed the memo into the air.

Achieving stable flight, the folded purple memo circled the room before heading towards the door. With a tap of the aeroplane's nose the office door opened; Alastor paused only a moment to Silence the _thunk_ of his artificial leg before stepping lively to keep up before the door closed on him. Keeping his magical eye fixed on the memo he looked about with his real one to make sure he wasn't observed.

"C'mon, Tonksie," the towheaded Jameson kid said with what the boy must've thought was his most winning smile. "What do I have to do to get you to go out with me?" he asked for what must be the hundredth time as Alastor made his way past her cubical.

"First off, stop calling me 'Tonksie,'" Nymphadora said with an agitated edge to her voice that'd soon have the poor boy in the infirmary if he didn't stop. "That's almost as bad as 'Pinky' that Mad-Eye's friend called me today. Secondly, you're like a minute older than me–"

"–More like a year," the boy noted.

"–That's still too close," she continued, "It just feels weird. So please just give up and move on."

The girl then tried to bury herself in all the paperwork she let pile up as Jameson coped with the loss as best he could.

"Pinky? Oh, that's perfect. I've got to start calling you that now."

Pinky let out a frustrated roar as he finally hit the hallway; Alastor couldn't have hoped for a better distraction.

His magical eye scanning around to insure that no one would bump into him, he hit the button to summon the elevator. Thanking his lucky stars that the car was empty except for other memos, he followed his folded purple guide inside and hit the button for Level 9. His luck continued as no one joined him along the way, though he did have to cause all the papers to fly out of one witch's arms to make sure that didn't happen.

"The Department of Mysteries," the announcer chimed as he reached Level 9 and the memo soared off again.

As Alastor followed the aeroplane towards the door at the end of the hall he couldn't help but glimpse things through his magical eye again. The elevator behind him glowed like a strange spectral chariot, the stairway leading down to the twisting hallways, courtrooms, holding cells below were as open and barren as a catacomb, leaving the memo ahead like a twinkling guiding star in the darkness; a tiny twinkling on the edge of a black oblivion.

He had always disliked the Unspeakables that worked in Department of Mysteries for their secrets, dubious loyalties, and uncertain chain of command, but he liked the whole place even less once he had lost his eye. After that it had gone from a place he was wary of to one that was downright unnatural. Whether it was an intentional defect of his replacement or some enchantment on the Department itself he didn't know, but it was the one place he couldn't look into. It was like staring at an all-encompassing void that blotted out the sun, and he was going into it just as blind as any other human; any that could stare out the back of their own skull anyway.

With a tap of the memo's pointed nose the door opened and the aeroplane raced through; Moody followed behind, uncertain what would be next. The tiny purple plane started flying in small circles at the center of a circular room of doors lit by eerie blue flames. Alastor stopped beneath it and looked around with both eyes, though neither worked any better than the other. The doors, flames, walls, ceiling, and floor were solid black and didn't register as the least bit magical, the only things that did was the memo, the silver shroud that kept him hidden, and the translucent mist that muffled his steps.

Through his magical eye he saw the door he entered through close causing the room to rumble and spin around faster than he'd ever thought possible, the torches leaving blue tracers across his vision. His replacement eye spun around with it trying to keep up, which made everything so much worse. Moody tried to fix it on the memo above him but that didn't work either, that had gone nuts too.

When the world had stopped spinning he took a moment to collect himself, clamping his good eye closed and shutting himself off from the images from his magical eye. When Alastor felt comfortable enough that he could look around again without sicking up he realized that the memo was gone and a door off to one side was closing.

_'Oh, not again,_' was the only thing he had time to think before the room spun around, leaving him completely disoriented.

When everything finally stopped spinning, Moody had to remind himself why he was doing this in the first place. He had to salute them on their security though, even if he knew where he was going he'd have no idea where to go. He'd just have to hope that Saul got his message soon or who knew how long he'd have to wait; thankfully it wasn't long.

A door burst open behind him and a man with a face like thunder came barreling through with his wand in hand, his hair and beard streaked with gray.

"Where are you, you son-of-a-bitch!" Saul said as he looked around the circular room.

Alastor moved to one side and gazed with his replacement eye, hoping for every advantage against the Unspeakable he could get if things went south for some reason. Unfortunately, that was also the moment that the door Saul came through had closed itself and caused the room to spin again.

_'Damnit!'_ he cried in his head. _'The spinning's worse the further you get from the center._'

"Show yourself, coward," Saul demanded as the room spun. The spinning didn't seem to affect him at all.

With his magical eye Moody saw a wave of misty white emanate from the man's wand, pulsing through the room and bouncing off him to echo back to Saul. Invisibility cloaks could keep you hidden from view but there were always other means of detection, and now Froggy Saul knew vaguely where he was.

"What is this, Lichfield?" the Unspeakable asked as he pointed his wand towards him and kept an eye out for any hint of movement. "Has your time finally run out and you wanted a bit of revenge before you go; only now you can't do it?"

"Not exactly," Moody said.

Finally giving up the illusion that he could fight the man – even if he had to – somewhere where the room itself was an enemy, he stowed his wand and shook his hands out of his sleeves to show he wasn't armed before lowering the hood of his cloak to reveal his face.

"Moo – How do I know you are who you look like?" Saul asked, squinting at him and still not lowering his wand. "And what are you doing down here? How did you know that stupid name?"

"You don't, to see you, and Lichfield told me years ago," Alastor said gruffly. "And since those are the obvious answers anyone could make up from seeing you charge in here, how do you want to handle this? Quiz me on things only I would know when we have never gotten to know each other well? How's that going to work?" he asked, spinning his magical eye around in a not-so-subtle clue that the man was being ridiculous. "You got my memo," he continued, "So do you have the time to talk, Froggy, or not?"

"No," Saul replied. "And don't call me that. If it's important, come back tonight; this place is always deserted by then."

"Sure thing, Croaker," Alastor agreed, his magical eye darting around to all the doors around him. "Now how the hell do I get out of here?"

.o0O0o.

The swirling lights from the other fires were rather stupefying, almost as if they were trying to lull you to sleep. That was if you didn't try to focus on them anyway; if you did, they'd make you sick. Harry thought it better just to close your eyes and avoid the issue entirely; it wasn't as if he didn't have other things he'd rather think about anyway.

The day-trip hadn't ended quite how he would've liked it to. There was the unfortunate turn with Mr. Lovegood towards the end, and apologizing for not asking her first after that – even though she said she understood – so perhaps things just weren't quite right in order to get another one of those kisses on the cheek. It was nice to think that Hermione had been building herself up to one though. Still, Harry didn't mind, just thinking of the one from the night before still made him smile.

He might've tried to give one to her instead but that would've been… Well, he didn't know how to describe it. Not unpleasant; Harry was quite sure that kissing Hermione would've been rather nice, on the cheek or otherwise. It might've felt more like the hug he got from her instead, the one where her father was watching the entire time; that was uncomfortable. It was the first uncomfortable hug he'd gotten from her, but even then it was nice. It just had him wishing that smiling man would go somewhere else, or at least turn around, because hugging a man's daughter just didn't seem right when he was standing there watching.

That whole thing made him glad that the next time they'd be together would be on the train to Hogwarts, where at least that wouldn't be a problem. And when he thought of it, things had gone rather well, at least until the Hopefuls meeting, and Hermione seemed to enjoy herself too. So maybe Fred and George were right after all, maybe this was a da–

With a lurch and a belch of flame behind him that snapped his eyes open, Harry found himself in the Weasleys' kitchen on wobbly legs. Maybe paying a bit more attention while flooing wouldn't go amiss; he didn't want to end up landing on his behind or collapsing as soon as he got where he was going after all. He tried to cover for the slip by using the movement to shake the ash out of his hair rather than dusting himself off, just in case any of the guys had seen that.

"Oh there you are, Harry!" Mrs. W-_Molly_ greeted him cheerfully from the very homey table. She had what looked like several issues of the _Daily Prophet_ around her; she must've finally gotten bored looking through that old notebook of hers.

"I figured once Percy had come through that you two wouldn't be far behind," she said with a smile, before her eyes darted back to the fireplace curiously as the moment lingered. "Does Hermione know how to use the floo?" Molly finally asked with growing concern. "Oh dear, she might've come out of the wrong grate. Merlin knows where she'd end up then; Burslem, probably."

Harry wanted to wonder how anyone could come out at the wrong place but knew that he was just trying to distract himself from having to address the uncomfortable moment of truth.

"Actually, Hermione's not coming," he said, somewhat embarrassedly. "She and her dad had to head back home."

"Oh, that's too bad, dear," Mrs. Weasley commiserated. "Of course they're welcome here at any time. Merlin knows a girl needs her mother and a girl without one could use all the friends she can get."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Harry said as he slunk into a chair at the table with a squirm in his stomach. "Because I did invite a girl over, but it wasn't Hermione who'd lost her mother. Sorry for the mistake. It was someone else who was at the Hopefuls meeting."

"Oh, thank goodness," Molly said, a look of relief evident on her face. "Not that I wouldn't be delighted to get to know your girl better, dear, I'm just relieved that that awful thing didn't happen to her."

Harry tried to clear his conscience about setting up Mrs. Weasley for such a huge emotional blow but he didn't make much headway on it. She was obviously a very caring person and in spite of her disagreement with Mrs. Lovegood, her heart must've been in the right place, or at least that's what Harry was choosing to believe. It made everything so much harder to get through.

"So tell me about this girl you invited," Molly said, fingering one of the _Prophets_. "And where is she? I take it that she's not a muggleborn?" she asked, obviously wondering why the mystery girl wasn't here yet.

"I think she wanted to make sure that her dad was okay," he said, deciding to go with a version of the truth. "He didn't take it too well when his wife came up in conversation. He actually runs a wizarding magazine, so they must know how to use the floo," Harry finished weakly, seeing the odd calculating look grow on Molly's face.

_'How many wizarding magazines were there?'_ Harry wondered as he ran a hand through his hair to flatten it down, really wanting to avoid having to say what came next.

In truth he wasn't sure how many wizarding magazines there were since he had never actually seen one, so who knows how many people across the country he could be describing. His stomach fell when he realized that she must've been trying to put the pieces together. As much as he hated it, he was just going to have to say it.

"Her name's Luna," Harry said finally. "Luna Lovegood."

"Oh! That's–," Mrs. Weasley's homey voice of recognition cut off quickly as the rest of what he meant caught up to her.

Harry wished he could look away but he couldn't, the look that began to grow on Molly's face and the way she covered her mouth with her hand as if to take back anything hurtful she may have said before just wasn't right. No one should have to look like that. No one should have to feel hurt, or be crushed like Mr. Lovegood had been, or how–

But when it came to that, why didn't anyone ever look that way when it came to his parents? Why did they think it was okay to go on about how famous he was without once having a kind thing to say about their deaths? Was it because he had never gotten to know them, so to their minds it wasn't like he was missing anything? Maybe they hadn't ever gotten to know them either and only thought of them as tragic but valiant heroes out of stories, like those stupid _Boy-Who-Lived_ books brought to life; like they hadn't really existed at all. Maybe he wanted to miss them, had they ever thought of that?

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, finally managing to look away. It wasn't a shock to find that his eyes were just as misty as Molly's was.

"It's just…" she said, sounding more than a little lost. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, dear," Mrs. Weasley murmured, getting to her feet and walking away. At the living room she turned back to him. "The boys are out back, if – if you want," she said nebulously, but for once he didn't feel like Quidditch.

When she hit the stairs he realized what she was going to do – she was going to tell Ginny that her best friend's mother was dead. If he couldn't think of the people they were trying to help as victims of their own attempts to help them then he was a horrible manipulator. He knew then that he and Hermione should never try to do something like this again. At the very least they should talk about it and actually be honest with everyone instead of going behind their backs. Harry didn't know how he could feel any worse.

Suddenly a high-pitched shriek tore through the house, and then another close behind.

_'Just how bad was she taking this?'_ Harry wondered.

After that something truly bizarre happened.

"We are the Harpies! The Holyhead Harpies! We will never fail!" Ginny's voice rang out. "We'll fly through the night and put up a fight, thr–"

Brief as it was, he heaved a sigh of relief when it suddenly cut off and Mrs. Weasley reentered putting her wand back in her pocket. She hesitated on seeing him still at the table.

"She's not been feeling well," Molly said lamely. "I think friends will do them both a world of good. It was very nice of you," she said with a smile he didn't deserve.

As she made her way to the kitchen Harry wondered if it wouldn't be better if he went outside after all, but he doubted the guys would understand and he certainly didn't want to add any more misery to the place. Molly had pulled out flour, milk, eggs, and butter and had just opened a cabinet for a large bowl when it disappeared and Dobby appeared beside her with it.

"Missus needs something cooked? Dobby can cook," the little elf said energetically, glancing between him and Molly to see which one would say yes first.

"Yes you can, dear," Molly said, taking the bowl from him with a pat on the head. "And you cook very well; I'd just feel better doing this part of dinner myself. I'll get out of your way after that, because I know you want to make tonight _extra_ special," she said supportively.

Harry looked at Mrs. Weasley curiously. Even having just been emotionally distressed she was better at manipulating people than he was. Was it a mother thing or a girl thing? He was starting to fear that he'd always see people that he was trying to help as victims of himself while Hermione had managed to get him to ask her out to Hogsmeade, and then again generally, well before they had even met up at Diagon Alley.

Harry vaguely remembered wanting to buy something there too, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was. He didn't think it was a book; was it a broomstick or something? Harry knew that Hermione was smarter than him, but he had never considered the possibility that if they were already officially going out that she might be doing the opposite of what Fred and George suggested in case everything went badly and they had to go back to being just friends. Maybe Hermione would've been a better Slytherin than he would have, regardless of whether his grandparents were in the house or not.

His attention was diverted by a gout of green flame from the fireplace. If the elder Weasley brothers had been unsuccessful at breaking into the bank this would certainly make their mother's day. Oddly, it turned out to be Luna, who he hadn't expected here for hours yet, though Mrs. Weasley didn't seem to mind at all.

"Oh, there you are, dear," Molly said warmly, crossing over to the small blonde and giving her a hug. "It's lovely to see you again, you've gotten so big."

The girl looked at her a bit bewilderedly.

"Did the gnomes bite you?" Luna asked. "Their saliva's supposed to be enormously beneficial."

"Of course, dear, that's why they're there," Molly replied without a hint of hesitation. "You've met Harry, of course," she said, gesturing to him.

"Hello," Luna said with a wan smile.

"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley called. "Oh, I forgot," she said before taking out her wand and giving it a flick at the stairs. "Why don't you go ahead and go on up? I'm sure she'd like to see you," she patted Luna on the back and went back to whatever she was making.

Luna paused as she was about to pass by him and dug in the pocket of her dress for a moment.

"Here you go," she said setting a small pile of river-worn pebbles on the table next to him. "I thought you could use them."

"Er – thanks," Harry said, not knowing what else to say.

"I think that you'll be interesting," she replied. And with no attempt to explain what she meant Luna left for Ginny's room.

Strange as they were, Harry took the pebbles anyway. If he left them there then Fred and George might have them make their way into his food when he wasn't looking. But then again, if she was able to brighten things up just by being here who was to say they wouldn't come in handy after all?

Feeling better about getting her here, Harry went out to see what the guys had been up to.

.o0O0o.

He had heard things at the home office in Britain had become a bit odd – why else would they have called people back from overseas? – but he thought it would've been some nonsensical regulatory regime the Ministry had just pushed through – like making everyone working overseas provide regular toenail samples or something. What Bill hadn't expected was for the bank doors to be closed or prepared for the sheer number of people recalled; if he hadn't run into Charlie last night he wouldn't have had a room to sleep in unless he went back home.

Even the normal leeway they gave employees seemed to be curtailed, which is how the two Weasleys found themselves standing on a small side alley next to a nondescript door while slightly darker clouds threatened to drizzle on them. And to top it off, they were waiting for a goblin that he was pretty sure was just going to say no, whether he seemed to have taken a liking to him or not. Still, if you didn't put up with a bit of annoyance for your brother then who would you do it for?

The door in front of them opened slowly, and Bill could tell by the way it spoke that this was the goblin they were waiting on.

"Ah! I am thanking you," a goblin voice said to someone, "I did not be knowing this door was here."

Charlie gave him an odd look that he only had time to squelch with one of his own before the mustachioed Overseer Alkrat appeared before them.

"Is it the raining?" the goblin asked, looking up. "Better the wet storm than the stand storm, yes? And it is the Weasley!" the excitable Overseer exclaimed. "This is the luckydo. You be getting inside, yes?" the goblin beckoned.

"Uh, yes, sir," Bill said in hopes of keeping his boss happy. "I was hoping to bring someone in with me though, so I could give him a tour and he could entertain some professional curiosity," he explained.

Overseer Alkrat's face fell.

"Oh, I be so sorry for you," the goblin said. "We-we-we cannot be having anyone in the inside now. The others, they not be allowing this. He come back later maybe, yes?"

"We understand, sir. I just thought I'd check," he replied. "Sorry, Charlie. Maybe next time," Bill said to his brother.

"That's alright," Charlie said with a wave. "It gives me a chance to see Ron and the twins, not to mention Mum."

"Mum?" Alkrat asked curiously. "What is the mum? That is the fleur-flower, yes?"

"He's just talking about our mother, sir," Bill explained, thinking that if he gave a mum to his mum that she'd probably keep it forever.

"Yes, and I still say that dragons are easier to deal with than her," Charlie joked.

"Ah!" Alkrat cheered. "It is another Weasley! And he be working with dragons, yes?" the Overseer asked, his eyes bright.

"Yes, sir," Bill answered quickly, sensing an opening here. "He's worked with them on a preserve in Romania for the last year, and had a summer internship there before that," he said with glowing tones as if to imply that his brother had run everything himself.

"This-this-this is wonderful!" Alkrat smiled. "You come," the goblin said as he grabbed Charlie's hand to pull him towards the door. "We need the consultant."

As Charlie disappeared inside he shot him a look that wondered what he had gotten him into. Bill tried not to laugh at the hyperactive Overseer but he was wondering the same thing. He had promised to get his brother a look at the dragons one day but he had never made any promises about them letting him leave again.

As he entered and closed the door behind him, Bill wondered if he could get Charlie probed.

.o0O0o.

Lester had never seen the bank so busy. Even in the stuffily stolid legal department humans and goblins were running about carrying who-knew-what around so quickly that he had had to flatten himself against the wall or be trampled. It made slow going, especially when collisions happened and papers went flying so that everything around them had to stop while they sorted what was what.

_'Perhaps the mystery of the missing rental agreement wasn't so difficult after all,_' he thought to himself.

When he hit the common conference and work area he found it strangely segregated. On the right were all the human litigators and legal clerks Gringotts used with the only goblins darting about being low-ranking Gofers while on the left were the goblins who served the same function, though they had drafted Secretaries to ferry things about. At a tiny table in a far corner stood one of the best goblin contract lawyers Gringotts had huddled with who he thought was the Dragonmaster and two of his senior underlings.

_'Huh. They must be making sure they're in full compliance with the creature handling laws,_' Lichfield thought. With the I.C.W. involved and the Ministry likely wanting any excuse to poke around too, it was a sensible precaution to take. _'If Bloodwell had been drawn in it's a good thing I have other things to do or I likely would've been grabbed instead. After all, why would they need a contract dealing with dragons?'_

Lester fingered the vial in his pocket as he made his way down the row between the human and goblin camps as he headed for his office at the back. The meeting with the loathsome Skeeter woman had been productive but irritating at the same time. She was a wand prone to backfire and would require close watching. The woman needed to learn that real scandals were sensational because they were true not that what was real, made sensational, resulted in scandals. Even a cursory glance at real evidence would have her best story unravel if it wasn't true and what he was offering her was different, better.

"Litigator Lichfield, I've got something for you," came a cracky, screechy voice behind him and he turned to see Barchoke's secretary coming towards him from the goblin section.

"Well tell them I'm busy and it'll have to wait," he replied with a wave.

"But it came from the Gra– from Overseer Barchoke directly," she said in a cracking voice that made his skin crawl.

How Barchoke or the other goblins could stand that way of speaking Lester would never know. It got him to stop though.

_'Goblins never slip up over hierarchy,_' he thought. _'Is that little bugger getting promoted and he didn't even tell me?'_ Lichfield grumbled; if he got bumped up to the big chair upstairs he was likely going to end up having to call Barchoke 'sir' even in private._ 'Well, stuff that._'

"Well then, what is it?" he asked the pig-tailed goblin gruffly. "And what's all this running about? I thought we were prepared for the whole I.C.W. mess."

"We are," she said simply. "But now we're up to our necks in more N.D.A.s than we ever thought possible."

"And how are we supposed to fully disclose things to the I.C.W. and the Ministry if no one can speak coherently?" Lichfield asked, rubbing his temple.

"How am I supposed to know?" the secretary asked with a shrug, her voice cracking again.

This was going to be one of those days, he just knew it. At least he got a free meal first.

"So what is it he wants me to do?" he asked the little goblin female.

"It's something involving intellectual property rights," she replied, "but I can't say anything more without an N.D.A. from you being on file for this."

"So the whole world's falling apart," Lester said, gesturing to the scrum around him. "And now Barchoke decides he can't trust me?"

"They're not trusting anyone," she said by way of explanation. "He even made me sign one."

_'Like that makes a lot of difference,_' Lester thought._ 'There's a difference between a decent secretary and a best friend. It's not like they're–_'

His eyes darted to the pig-tailed secretary who was holding out the standard N.D.A. for him to sign. He quickly tried to scrub the image that had formed from his mind.

_'Good for him if it's happening but that's not something I want to think about,_' he mentally muttered while looking over and signing the agreement.

"Just a second," he said as the secretary – he should really learn her name now, he guessed. _'Dixie? Trickie? Trixie! That's it._' – as Trixie opened her mouth to continue.

"Mipsy," he called. Lester couldn't help but notice the disgusted look on Trixie's face as the little house-elf popped up beside him.

"Yes, Mister Lichy?" the energetic elf asked, drawing glances from the goblins around them.

"Is that contract safe in my office?" he asked.

"Yes, Mister Lichy. Want me to take the briefcase now?"

"Please, and keep this safe too," Lester said, handing the vial of silvery memory over with the briefcase and watched her pop! away again.

"Can you not bring that _thing_ here?" Bladvak, one of the goblin litigators, said getting up from a nearby table. It was much more assertive than anyone had spoken to him at any time since Barchoke had been made an Overseer. He seemed to have appointed himself office manager.

"Why wouldn't I?" Lichfield swatted back at him, noting that much more of the goblins' attention was now on him rather than what they had been doing.

"Because we don't like them," the goblin answered with Trixie nodding. "They freak us out,"

"Why?" he asked, wondering why he was just hearing about this now.

"They just do!" Bladvak snapped before turning to the rest of the scrum. "What are you all looking at? Don't you have work to do?"

It looked like several new undercurrents had developed in Gringotts in the past day or so and Lichfield didn't know if he'd like any of them. And worse, with all the mess with the I.C.W., Flamel, the Ministry, and his own case with the boy he didn't know when the next time he'd be able to sit down with Barchoke would be so he could get to the bottom of it. If the goblin would tell him that is; if the dislike of house-elves was so common, why hadn't he mentioned it before? He mentally waved it away for now as a concern for later.

"So now what can you tell me?" he asked Trixie as he motioned her to lead the way.

"That depends," she replied. "Do you speak Goblin?"

Lester sighed. Sometimes it didn't pay to work for a bank.

.o0O0o.

"I feel like a scarlet woman," his brother moaned into the pub's tabletop a few hours later.

"Nah, I doubt any scarlet woman's ever been paid that much," Bill teased, eyeing the two large sacks bulging with the strange paper money the Romanian wizards used. "Worrying about it won't make it any better, just relax."

"How can you say that?" Charlie asked, looking pained. "You don't know what I've done."

"I break into people's tombs and steal their most beloved treasures for a living," he said with a wave. "Sometimes I literally take them from their cold, dead hands. You don't do that without a bit of moral flexibility. All I have to ask is, was it illegal?"

If anything that made the man who stared down dragons for a living look even more sheepish.

"From the way they described it, technically, no," Charlie hedged. "But that doesn't mean that it was right. I feel like a fraud."

"And that bit of moralistic turmoil is exactly why your tongue's tied up with a non-disclosure agreement," Bill said. "Just be glad that yours is temporary, mine's for however long it needs to be."

"Then how could you say what you just did?" his brother asked with a curious look on his face.

"Because everyone knows what a curse-breaker does, even if they don't realize what it is they actually do," he explained. "And I never said my N.D.A. was about that."

"But what are we going to tell Mum and Dad?" he asked. "I can't tell them fibbidy fumpt pipi-pumpkins. They'd never understand," Charlie said morosely.

Bill chuckled, "I'm sitting right here and _I_ didn't understand."

"Ugh!" his brother cried, burying his head in his hands again.

"Look, if you keep trying to talk about it it's going to keep happening and then they'll know that something's up, press you about it, and it'll never stop happening," Bill warned. "Just try not to think about it; but if it's the money that's worrying you…," Bill teased as he inched his hand across the table towards the bags, "I'll gladly take it from you."

That got his brother to move.

"Like hell you will," Charlie declared, clutching his sacks of currency like they were eggs and he was a nesting dragon. "This money's going to something good."

"Swanky new robes and a flat of your own?" he suggested.

"I'm thinking of donating it to the Preserve," Charlie said, looking at him like he was mad.

"Don't be mental," he replied, looking at his brother like he'd been Confunded. "Are they going to make you a manager or team leader or something for that?"

"People can do things without an ulterior motive you know," his brother scolded.

"Name one."

"Me," Charlie said stubbornly.

"Really?" Bill said shrewdly. "Then why are you in the country: because Fred and George wrote you, you want to do something nice for our little brother, McGonagall called about the Hopefuls, you like spending time with Dad, or because you know that you really should put a bit more effort in with Mum?"

"Having multiple reasons to do something isn't the same as having ulterior motives," Charlie said after a moment.

"And yet you're not donating that money because it's the right thing to do," Bill pointed out. "You're doing it to clear your conscience and that's an ulterior motive."

And with that his brother looked like a puppy that had just been kicked. How Charlie could be both rugged and outdoorsy and yet namby-pamby at the same time he would never know. His brother was like a walking, talking teddy bear that probably hugged the dragons to sleep instead of subduing them; a veritable plush bundle of doom.

"You don't realize what that money is, do you?" Bill asked his brother.

"Proof that I can be bought?" Charlie offered as he shrunk the sacks down to fit into his robes.

"Anyone can be bought," he told his brother bracingly. "All they have to do is keep throwing money at you until you go from 'no' to 'maybe' and they've got you. And you wouldn't have gotten half that much if you hadn't said 'no' quite a bit from the off, so whatever they needed you for they needed you pretty bad, but that's not what I meant. That money is a new future for you."

Bill continued as his brother looked thoughtful.

"I may look like I mint my own galleons," he said with a cocky grin and a flip of his ponytail, "but that's only because I live well below my means and work my ass off for it. Believe me, I wish I had haggled before I signed my work agreement with them; I was young and dumb enough to say, 'Oh, whatever you think is fair,' when it came to how much I take home. Applied correctly, that money is a house, a wife, kids, and a good start on their lives, and I know how much you've always wanted that."

The pointed look on Charlie's face made him realize that that particular sore spot was still quite sore for him.

_'Damn, still not thinking before I speak,_' he scolded himself.

"Look, Charlie," Bill said more softly. "I know you loved Shawna – you two went out for longer than I can remember, and it tore me up to see you after you two split – but you've got to move on when things don't work out. You're not even twenty yet. Going out with someone else won't lessen what she meant to you and staying single for the rest of your life won't bring her back."

"It's still easier to live that way though," Charlie said with a swig of his butterbeer, looking as if he wished it was firewhiskey instead. "She was the only thing I ever wanted. I didn't care what happened – if we lived in a hut like Hagrid's for the rest of our lives, I'd be fine – as long as she was there, it'd be home."

Bill didn't know how many times he had heard his brother say that but it was the first time something had ticked in the back of his mind.

"You don't run off to the other side of the continent if you had hopes of getting back with an ex-girlfriend," he observed.

His brother brooded silently for a moment.

"You know what it's like having class with an ex for a year?" Charlie asked, hunching his shoulders protectively.

"Many times over," Bill said with a lopsided grin. "Several girls played Seeker when it came to me but this Snitch never stayed caught for long."

"Then you have no idea what I'm talking about," his brother said dismissively. "When you have something like that you can never think about that person any other way."

"A girl you snogged is never going to be a girl you didn't," he said with a sagely nod.

"Something like that only much, much worse," Charlie agreed. "It's like I can sense her when I'm here – like she's in the next room or if I turn around she'd be there. And going down that street earlier," he said, pointing to the entry to Diagon Alley. "It was like she was right there next to me. Every shop, every window, everything connected back to her – it was a nightmare."

"So as soon as you could you run off to Romania just to get away from her?"

"Why not?" his brother asked, "The entire last year I was there, there were parts of Hogwarts that I simply wouldn't go to because I knew that she'd be there."

"Must've made eating difficult," Bill observed.

"Who said I ate much? There's a reason I got so skinny back then," his brother explained. "And when I did eat it was in the kitchens."

"Damn, Charlie, you should've said something," he said honestly. He had known it was bad but he hadn't known it had been that bad.

"You would've just said then what you just said now, 'move on,'" Charlie said, dismissing his concern with a wave.

"The me I was then probably would've told the you you were then that, sure," Bill agreed. "But not if you had added that last part; I wouldn't have known what to say. I stick with it now because it's been more than two years," he explained. "The me I am now though would tell the you you were then that what you were going through is a good thing," he said pointedly.

"How?" his brother asked, seemingly at a loss for any other word.

"Because you're a lot like Dad – and I say that as a good thing," he hastened to add. "If Mum ever died, you know he'd be devastated," Bill explained. "But five years down the line, ten years down, whenever it was that he got involved with a woman again, you also know that he'd appreciate every single moment with her that much more because now he knows how quickly it can be snatched away."

"Yeah, I guess that's true," Charlie said after a while. "How does a Snitch that's never remained caught learn something like that?"

"Just because I fly from flower to flower doesn't mean I miss the fact that some people like having just the one," Bill replied smoothly. "You deserve to be cautiously happy rather than constantly miserable though. I don't even want to think what that would do to a guy after a while."

"Maybe; it doesn't feel like today's the day for it though," his brother said, finishing the last of his butterbeer. "You're starting to talk like a guy whose turn is right around the corner though," Charlie said, finally with a bit of a smile.

"Don't curse me like that," he said with a perturbed look. "I was going to keep an eye out for a special little flower for you, but since you said that, you can forget it." Bill said with a smile, much preferring a happy brother to a woebegone one.

"And speaking of special little flowers–," he said, taking out his wand and spinning it in a bit of a circle. A single chrysanthemum in full bloom burst forth from his wand. Palely pink with a yellow center, Bill thought it was a fine choice for a mother. "–It's time to see Mum."

.o0O0o.

It was a plainer and much more subdued Rita Skeeter that Lichfield followed through the Ministry's corridors, clutching her quill-and-ink set and little notebook as if they were a shield against whatever lurked in the sparsely lit gloom. Gone were the tight blonde ringlets and bejeweled spectacles she normally wore – though he supposed he was wrong in saying so. In truth, when these events occurred the woman had yet to adopt the signature look.

Just in sight behind her was Bartemius Crouch, then the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, crisply dressed, hair tightly controlled, and briefcase present even at this very early hour. A man with a fighter's mentality and a vicious hatred of the Dark Arts, all he understood was attack – attack – _attack!_ Lester tried to recall precisely how long the man had left at this time before his career, his whole life, crumbled around him when his namesake son had been exposed as a Death Eater – a few days, a week at most; everyone had been blindsided by that bit of scandal.

It was another scandal that he was interested in though and as Rita turned and entered the Office of Wartime Child Placement and Care – a Ministry department that wouldn't last the day – he saw the focus of his interest already sitting to one side of a modestly sized table in front of a room full of empty chairs. Albus Dumbledore never left his contemplative state as Rita tucked into a chair and seemed to blend into it like a mouse in a corner. It hardly seemed the scene for one – if not two – of the biggest miscarriages of justice ever known. In his experience though politicians could do far more lasting damage than any group of criminals ever could, and more often than not they got away with it too.

"Dumbledore," Crouch said quickly as he entered the room in what passed as a greeting from him. "Who was it this time?" he asked, getting down to business. "Are there any witnesses?"

"Ah, I think we should wait for the Minister to arrive," Dumbledore said in his grandfatherly way. "That way we do not need to repeat ourselves."

"Then wait no longer," a short, somewhat portly woman in curlers pronounced as she made her entrance. "I, Millicent Bagnold, Minister of Magic, do hereby open these emergency proceedings regarding the surviving child or children of um…," the woman looked to Dumbledore for information as she took her seat between Crouch and Fudge.

Looking over, Lester saw Rita hurriedly scratching away with her quill; these people had just taken it for granted that she was ready, or was even there in all likelihood. The sympathy he had for some of the victims of her libelous literary liturgy slipped a bit when he saw that.

"How many of her first targets had actually had it coming?" he wondered, taking the privacy of the pensieve as license to actually speak his thoughts out loud.

"James and Lily Evans Potter," Dumbledore said, almost overriding him.

_'Perhaps keeping my thoughts to myself would be better after all,_' he thought. After all, he couldn't listen to what he couldn't hear for all his gabbing.

"While it's a sad day when any of our countrymen die, sadder still is the loss of those we value most highly," Minister Bagnold said with kind words that were belied by the tone that said she was saying it now by rote. "The Wizengamot mourns the passing of such a distinguished member."

Lester shook his head at that. The boy had never sat in his father's seat, something he was determined to change this time around. If James had been born with even half of Charlus's temperance he never would've gotten involved with Dumbledore's little band, never drawn the attention of You-Know-Who, and would likely still be alive today.

_'But if wishes were wings, pigs would fly,_' Lichfield reminded himself.

"I've gotten reports," Crouch interjected while withdrawing a parchment from his briefcase. "Of 'an abnormally large man' riding a flying motorbike from the ruins of a house in Godric's Hollow. Does that have anything to do with this?"

"That would be our gameskeeper, Hagrid, though I cannot say for certain where the motorbike came from," Dumbledore replied with a smile like this was all a bright, sunny day. "He was there, on my orders, to take charge of the situation."

"Two muggle law enforcement officers and a dozen onlookers had to be Obliviated," Crouch said tersely. "Even now we have men tracking down who sent them, where those reports are, and how they are kept, all to try to keep this breach of Secrecy under control. The Ministry would be better served by having our forces deployed elsewhere. Is that what you call 'taking charge'?"

"Now, Barty, don't get in a huff," Minister Bagnold said indulgently as she checked her hair to see if it was dry. "We all know Hagrid means well and was doing his best. It's not like he has magic to call upon; his wand was snapped years ago," she said with a wave. "Albus, you know I support the things you do for us but you really should try to avoid these things. The Ministry's involved now."

"And using methods against our enemies that are far too harsh," Albus said mournfully. "These are our brothers and sisters. While we should strive to stop them whenever possible, we should be reaching out to them with love and friendship so they might see the error or their ways."

Lester snorted and Crouch didn't look convinced.

"Tell that to the people they've killed, to the children they've left orphaned, to the Obliviators I've had working overtime for months to cover for their – and your – actions," he said with a fiery gleam in his eye; Lester had forgotten how worked up the man could get before it all went to hell. "I for one think that you all need to be brought to heel, and I'm happy to start with your group," the man told Dumbledore. "I intend to see charges brought against Rubius Hagrid for this serious breach of Secrecy, and on you for sending him there in violation of Ministry procedures."

"Barty, you can't go charging Dumbledore," Bagnold said, removing the curlers from her hair. "The public would have your head, and mine. Let it be," she ordered. "I am curious though how you knew to send him in the first place."

"Ah," Dumbledore said sagely, "when the Potters went into hiding for good, shortly after the birth of their son, I was instrumental in helping them erect certain monitoring charms," he explained. "So when Lord Voldemort–," Albus's eyes darted curiously to the Minister for a moment when she squeaked at the name and almost fell from her chair. "–attacked the Potter home, I was alerted at once. And while I am sad to say that help was unable to arrive in time to prevent their deaths, Hagrid was available to tend to the survivor."

"Survivor?" Bagnold asked shocked as she righted herself in her chair. "Y-You-Know-Who has never left survivors before."

"I do not believe there has ever been an attack like this before," Dumbledore said seriously. "The monitoring charms noted only one person arrive before the attack began, meaning that Voldemort went alone. Another charm noted a Blasting Curse, presumably to gain entry, followed quickly by a Killing Curse," the old man recited, his eyes losing a great deal of their customary twinkle. "Mere moments later: a spell was used to force open a barricade and two other Killing Curses."

"Two?" Crouch asked, making notes of his own. "A parent and child? How many children did the Potters have? And what happened to the assailant? He just decided to leave?"

"James and Lily had only an infant son, Harry," Albus said. "But as to what happened, that remains a mystery," he said nebulously. "Shortly after the last Killing Curse was cast a second person entered the house. This person entered and left quickly, leaving behind the survivor of whatever caused the house to become the ruin you described, Bartemius. I cannot say for certain what happened to Voldemort–"

Minister Bagnold inhaled sharply at the name, and Lichfield would've rolled his eyes if it weren't so commonplace, even today, more than a decade later.

"–But I can say this," Dumbledore continued. "Harry Potter is the boy who lived."

"Fascinating," Bagnold breathed, trying to hide her previous discomfort by fanning herself, as if it were the story itself that she'd been reacting to. "You'd make quite the storyteller, Albus," she said with a pat on the man's arm.

"Thank you," Albus said with a slight blush.

_'I wonder if I could remind Skeeter of that before she goes to press,_' Lester thought as he poked a chair within the memory to see if it were solid enough to sit upon. It didn't have any give at all, but it seemed like it would do the job, so he sat.

"A second person?" Crouch asked with narrow eyes. "Who was it, why did they enter, and why would they leave the child?"

"To that I cannot say," Dumbledore said. "The spell was a simple one, merely intended to detect arrivals and departures. Though I said it would be prudent to have, they did not see the need for a more complex system in place since anyone who arrived would be an invited guest. That simplicity also made it more durable though," he explained. "Had they opted for one that relayed that specific knowledge to me, the spell may have ceased to function since the house was heavily damaged by that time, leaving us without this information at all.

"As to why this second person would be there," Albus went on to say, "to that I can only conjecture. Perhaps it was a friend who chose the wrong moment to stop by, though the timing would indicate otherwise," he said sorrowfully. "I believe this second person went there out of love."

"Love?" Bagnold asked curiously.

"Specifically, that of Remorseful Love, of Regret," Dumbledore explained. "I believe, though I am in no way sure, that this second person was the Potters' friend and betrayer, their Secret Keeper."

"A Fidelius?" the Minister asked. "That's a spell well beyond my-m-most people's abilities," she corrected herself. "The Ministry is most fortunate to have you, Albus."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond but once again Crouch's look turned cold.

"And wouldn't you have been Secret Keeper for this house, Dumbledore?" he asked pointedly, drawing bulging eyes from the Minister between them.

Albus looked at him sadly.

"While I offered my services in that regard, the Potters did not require my assistance," he replied. "James was quite powerful and capable of casting the charm himself, as was his wife. And though I offered to be the Secret Keeper for them, he was determined to use his best friend: Sirius Black."

"Black?" Crouch cried, as if things were suddenly making sense and whipped out a purple memo parchment. "We need an arrest warrant for him sent out immediately," the Ministry's top law enforcer declared. "There was a report almost two years ago about two dark-haired men on a flying motorbike. Black and Potter?" he asked Dumbledore pointedly.

"Ah, I do believe you could be right," Albus replied jovially. "Arrest might be premature though," Dumbledore said with a soothing gesture as Bartemius let his memo fly. "There are many questions to be answered, not least amongst them: was he the really the Secret Keeper and, if so, why did he betray his friends?"

"Was he really–?" the Minister asked flummoxed, and Lester sat back not too far from it. He hadn't expected Dumbledore to be Black's advocate in this. "How can you even ask that? You said yourself that the Potters were insistent on it."

"And yet they could have changed their mind," Dumbledore pointed out. "They were a very clever group, and until we ask, we can never truly know."

"Clever – or some might say stupid – enough to deceive the leader of their cohort?" Crouch scoffed.

"The Order of the Phoen–," Albus tried to correct the other man only to be overridden.

"Why would they lie to you when their lives were on the line?" he asked. "Asking such a loaded question only gives him room to wriggle away. We know enough as it is," Crouch said firmly. "I'll have him found and thrown in Azkaban by the end of the day. Such betrayal cannot go unpunished."

"Without a trial?" Bagnold asked. "The Wizengamot would never allow it."

"And there is the child to consider," Albus added. "Though he is young now, one day he may wish to know why his parents are dead, why their friend betrayed them. Sirius Black is, after all, Harry Potter's godfather."

Silence filled the room so swiftly and completely that even the scratch of Skeeter's quill was stilled, the woman herself sat staring at Dumbledore like he had pronounced the end of days.

"I have here a copy of the Potters' Will," he said into the accompanying silence, "which they had prudently left in my care."

Dumbledore removed a folded parchment from his star-spangled robes and handed it to the Minister.

"It is simple and clear," he said. "Upon their deaths, guardianship of their son, Harry, should pass to his godfather, Sirius Black."

Lester nodded; at least James had the presence of mind to make more than one copy, though if he were still here he'd clout the boy behind the ear for not giving him one. It would have saved everyone a load of trouble.

"That makes the depths of his duplicity even worse," Crouch said disgusted. "Betrayal by one as close as family is one we cannot ignore. You say he should have a trial? Then _this _is his trial," the fiery-eyed man declared. "You gave testimony that the Potters were protected by the Fidelius Charm, and insistent upon using the man for their Secret Keeper, right?"

"That was my understanding of their intentions," Dumbledore said tentatively.

"Then by all the available evidence, Sirius Black is disqualified for guardianship for the betrayal of the boy's parents, and I will see him in Azkaban by day's end for their murders!" Crouch finished firmly, hitting the table with his fist as if it were a gavel before closing his briefcase and storming from the room.

"Milicent, you cannot allow–," Albus said, but the Minister was already heading him off.

"The circumstances are unusual, and you may file for an actual trial if you wish," she said quickly. "But you know as well as I do what his fate would be if a case like this was brought before the Wizengamot. The man would have a date with a Dementor within the hour without any of your questions being asked," Bagnold said, spelling everything out for him. "A godfather turning on the family? I haven't heard anything so gruesome since that young child killed his family."

"And it turned out that the child in question had been Imperioused," Dumbledore reminded her. "That may well be the case here. Until we ask we can never know," he said stubbornly.

Bagnold tsked and waved his concerns away as she got to her feet before turning to him with a curious look on her face.

"Wait a moment," she said, looking at Dumbledore with narrowed eyes. "Three Potters, three Killing Curses, and the house a ruin. But if the curse didn't kill the boy, how was he able to survive? And what happened to You-Know-Who?"

"As to how the he survived, I believe it is too early to know," Albus answered. "I believe, though, that it was his mother's dying act to sacrifice herself for him. Such an act can grant very powerful protection on those the person loves most," he explained. "And in so doing, attempting to kill young Mr. Potter would have been the very act that banished Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore smiled.

"V-v..." Bagnold stammered, still unable to bring herself to say the name. "You-Know-Who... is gone?"

"Not permanently, perhaps," Dumbledore said with a contemplative look. "But his power would most certainly be broken and his followers left leaderless. Which is what makes putting the boy who lived through this attack into a trustworthy guardian's hands all the more important," Albus explained. "If James and Lily trusted him, then who better to raise him?"

"You can't honestly suggest we give the boy to Black?" the Minister asked stunned. "The man's going to prison."

"Certainly things have not progressed so far that some leniency can't be shown," Albus said, looking sorrowful in his attempt to reverse the hasty actions with a commuted sentence. "Everyone deserves a second chance."

"You'll not convince Barty of that," Bagnold said simply. "And the Wizengamot would tear you apart, if the public didn't first, once this boy's story gets out. As the boy who lived through such a grisly attack – not to mention banishing You-Know-Who as an infant – this boy will be a legend!" the Minister cried. "I can't give him over to the man who betrayed his parents, even if he wasn't in his right mind."

"The boy must go to someone we can trust," Dumbledore pressed. "Someone we know won't turn him over to spare themselves."

"And you think someone as addle-brained as the recently Imperiused would be up to the job?" Milicent asked, mocking his foolishness. "I'm sorry, Albus, but Harry Potter will _not_ be going to Sirius Black, that much is final."

"Minister, I have seen you take brave stances for the greater good in seemingly insurmountable odds," Dumbledore said dramatically, rising to his feet. "But if you insist upon this miscarriage of justice then I'm afraid that you and I must part ways."

"Whatever do you mean?" Bagnold asked, looking concerned.

"If no other option is left to me, I shall resign in protest."

The Minister stood shocked, but she was no less shocked than Lester was. Dumbledore was doing the right thing, so how could it go so wrong?

"You can't leave, Albus, we need you," Bagnold said simply. "Even with You-Know-Who gone, there's still a world to set right."

"Starting with the fate of Sirius Black," Dumbledore pressed.

The Minister seemed to deflate a bit, a look of sympathy on her face.

"I commend you for sticking up for your friend and wishing to see the best in everyone," she said kindly. "It's the trait I most admire in you, but you must leave this alone. Here," she said, pulling out an official parchment and signing it with her name and magic. "Since the boy means so much to you, you take him – but leave this matter alone, for the good of everyone," Bagnold pressed.

Without a further word, the Minister left the room, leaving Dumbledore to slip back into deep contemplation once again.

"Minister, thank goodness I found you," a woman's voice said, drifting in from the hall.

"Mrs. Malfoy? Oh! This must be your daughter," Bagnold exclaimed. "I thought she'd be older."

"No, no, this is my son, Draco," the other woman explained. "Lyra didn't make it."

"Oh, my condolences, dear," the Minister murmured. "If there's anything I can do–"

"There is," Mrs. Malfoy cut in. "It's my husband; he's been acting strangely for a while – disappearing at nights and saying strange things. I think he's been Imperioused."

_'So that was how it started,_' Lester thought, shaking his head. _'You-Know-Who gone and before the Ministry could blink Death Eaters were coming out of the woodwork to plead their case. And Dumbledore had been bought... at the price of a child's life._'

Suddenly Albus's face brightened, hands pressed to his lips as if in silent prayer and with a smile like he'd been promised a sunny day that would never end. Equally distracting though was Rita Skeeter, the woman so easily overlooked in this time that he had forgotten she was there. Finally recovering from her shock, she fled from the room as fast as her feet could carry her; no doubt off to sell the story.

The world grew dark around him and Lester felt himself being pushed out of the pensieve. No wonder she had forgotten to write any of it for the record.

.o0O0o.

As the sun began to set on the Burrow little Ginny Weasley couldn't be happier. Well, she could, but not by much. After the initial unpleasantness Luna had proven just as odd as ever – if not more so, if that was possible – but it was a good odd and she had brought things quickly back to how they had been before and they had spent the whole afternoon getting to be best friends again.

Better yet, she was staying for dinner, and maybe if she asked her mum she would let Luna spend the night. She was going out of her way to be nice to them after all. If Luna was able to stay, then perhaps she could get Tom to talk to her. He hadn't responded at all when she had introduced her to him, which she found rather odd. He had said that he never had many friends but she'd think that being friendlier would fix that. But that was a worry for another time.

Everything seemed to have righted itself with Luna's appearance though, not only her mum. The Ministry had let almost everyone go early today for some reason, which had her dad not only home early but so happy for the time off he was practically bouncing. Her brothers were in good spirits as well and without a word of _that girl_ – Ginny refused to use Hermione's name – being said; they must have said all there was to say, which hopefully wasn't much, before they had left their makeshift Quidditch pitch.

There was something odd going on with them though and Ginny couldn't put a finger on what it was. It wasn't the thing with Percy, though that was certainly odd as well. Ever since the guys had come back inside he had been talking to them about some Defense study group he and Penelope were starting because of doubts of Lockhart's abilities in that regard. Ginny couldn't see how that could be; he was no Harry but he had plenty of books about him and his adventures and they wouldn't print it if it weren't true, no matter what Percy said yesterday.

She didn't mind the Defense thing though, especially since Harry seemed keen on it – as well he should since it was the books he'd bought that Percy had been reading all day. On the whole it seemed a backward way of doing things though. Everyone knew that Heroes had adventures and then passed their abilities on by training others, not the other way around. But Ginny supposed she could see the group preparing Harry to be the kind of Hero he was destined to be – though for the life of her she couldn't see Percy playing that role, he'd never had anything close to an adventure at all. Ron was better suited to be a Hero in that regard.

_'Ron, that was it,_' Ginny thought as she sat at the dinner table next to Luna.

Glancing over at Harry and her brothers she noticed that even though they were talking, they were either giving each other knowing looks or trying not to smile when they looked at Ron, so he was definitely at the center of something.

_'It's probably some sort of prank,_' she thought with a smile. Ron's head had been swelling lately with all the Quidditch they've been playing and it'd be really funny to see him taken down a bit.

Whatever it was hopefully it'd wait because just as Harry's elf – which didn't seem nearly as annoying right now – put the last of dinner on the table her mother brought over the dessert she'd been working on. She couldn't believe it! She had remembered! It was a coconut covered coconut cream cake: Luna's favorite.

"There you go, Luna dear," her mum said with a pat on the girl's head. As she walked to her seat Fred spoke up.

"Hang on," he said, looking at his watch. "We're still short."

"Whatever are you talking about?" their mother asked curiously before a soft chime rang out from the living room.

_'It can't be,_' Ginny thought. _'Things can't get any better than this!'_

She was happily proven wrong the next instant as the floo flared and her eldest brother appeared.

"Bill!" she and her mum cried at the very same instant, though she had the presence of mind to start running over to see him while her mum came at a statelier pace.

"Hey there, Gin," he said as she hugged him about the middle and he mussed her hair. "Hey Lu-lu, thought that was you today," Bill said to Luna.

"Hello," Luna said, her finger already dipping into the frosting on the cake.

_'Today? Why hadn't she told me?'_ Ginny wondered. _'Because it's Luna and she probably thought you knew what your own brother was doing,_' she answered herself.

"Bill, whatever brings you here?" their mother asked.

Stepping away from her brother she caught a glimpse of what he was holding behind his back before he presented it to their mother.

"I wanted to bring you this," he said as he gave her a hug and presented her with a pretty pink flower. "A mum for my mum. I also had someone very important to bring here tonight," Bill said with a smile and a wink to the guys.

_'Merlin!'_ Ginny thought wildly. _'Bill's got himself a girlfriend! I'm getting a sister!'_

The clock chimed again and Ginny was proven wrong, but for the second time she didn't care.

"Charlie!" she said as he appeared and she almost tackled him in her excitement. It wasn't a sister but a brother's always been good enough for her, especially since she hadn't seen this one since Christmas. Now it felt like Christmas all over again!

"My boys are back," her mum said as she gave Charlie a kiss on the cheek and a hug that said that she wasn't going to let him go.

"I hope Bill wasn't building me up too much," he said with a grin. "I'm only here for the night," Charlie explained, "But I said he could have my room now that he's been recalled to England and needs a place to stay, I hope you don't mind."

Ginny smiled, her mum looked ecstatic, and Bill looked like he was going to hit someone.

_'This is great!'_ she thought.

"Ah, there's pater noster," Charlie grinned as he made his way along the table to hug their dad.

"I think you made your mother's month," their father said with a grin just like Charlie's. "But we may be too many to fit in here now."

"Did you get it?" Fred asked.

"Did you bring it?" George echoed him.

"Of course I did," Charlie answered as Ginny left Bill to her mother's devices and returned to the table. "You really think I came all this way because McGonagall pestered me about this squirt?" he said gesturing to Harry with a thumb.

_'Well that's uncalled for,_' she thought primly. Harry wasn't that short.

"You know," her father said with a studious look at the wall at their end of the table. "If we just…"

Drawing out a large square with his wand saw a huge section of the wall disappear opening up the room to the garden and the night sky beyond.

"There we go," their father said cheerily an instant before a swarm of cackling potato-like gnomes scurried through the new opening.

"Oh, Arthur," her mother said wearily as laughter trickled around the table.

"What?" he asked innocently. "You always said that we could use a new addition when the boys got older. I'm sure they won't bother anyone," he said with a wave.

Ginny wasn't so sure about that, who knew how many of them were out there and what they ate? Luna clamped her hand to her mouth to keep herself from giggling and seemed to have a hard time staying in her chair. Looking down she saw that one of the gnomes was licking Luna's bare feet and Ginny didn't know which one was stranger, the gnome for doing it or Luna for letting him do it.

The table started groaning as the plates around her shifted and she looked up to see that the guys had backed away from it as it grew. A few moments later the table had been stretched several feet giving them plenty enough room for all twelve of them sit comfortably, as long as some didn't mind their end poking out of the house. The exasperated look on her mother's face was enough to know that it'd all be back to normal by the time they went to bed tonight, but for now she'd let it slide.

"So Charlie," Harry said as the elf popped in seats for the new additions and everyone found their seats and her mother plopped the little elf into his highchair. "Did you get a look at those dragons?"

Suddenly her brother had a very odd look on his face.

"They were very interesting," Charlie replied after a moment. "Anyway, I heard Ron's taken an interest in Quidditch," he said cheerily, changing the subject. "Thinking of going out for the team?"

"That'd be brilliant," Ron answered as they fixed their plates before turning somber. "But Wood's got years left as Keeper," he finished with a shrug.

"We'll be trying to get him to form a reserve team this year," George said as he began to eat.

"We nearly had the Cup last year," Fred explained. "We had it wrapped up until Harry got injured and we didn't have anyone to play Seeker for our last match."

Harry flattened his hair down nervously.

"It's not your fault, Harry," Bill said, eyeing their mother as she cut up Dobby's food for him into little pieces. "Accidents happen to everyone. The captain should have had a few people tipped for replacements anyway."

"Since you can get more use out of it than me, Ron, I suppose I can give you this," Charlie said taking out a small bag and tossing it to him.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked.

"Why don't you stop being a dumbass and find out," Charlie said, rolling his eyes.

"Charlie," their mother chided.

"Well, what else do you do with a bag but look inside?"

"That's still no reason to call your brother that," she said, looking over at him crossly.

"Yeah," George strangely agreed.

"Mo-Ron would do fine," Fred added.

With a grin, Ginny looked over to see how her youngest older brother would respond only to find Harry staring at him in shock as half of Ron's arm disappeared into Charlie's small bag and it was still going.

"Whoa!" Ron said finally, his eyes bulging. "It can't be."

Pulling his arm out, he produced a knob. That knob became a smooth wooden rod and that rod sprouted to become long enough fit curtains to. Suddenly she knew what it was.

_'It's a broomstick!'_ Ginny realized as the first twigs of its tail made their way out of the sack.

"No way," Ron breathed. "This is your Air Wave Gold," he said to Charlie. "England gave you this."

Her mother looked stunned.

"And I'm giving it to you," Charlie said with a wave. "It's not like I get any use out of it. Besides, a decent Keeper needs a decent broom, and Harry says you're becoming more than decent."

_'He got me into Hogwarts, got Luna back as my friend, got Charlie to visit from Romania, got Bill to move back to the Burrow, and he's even getting Ron onto the Quidditch team. Is there anything he can't do?'_ she wondered. And then it hit her: she's next in line for Ron's hand-me-down broom!_ 'This is the best day ever!'_

Once again the floo flared and for one mad moment she thought that it'd be Luna's mum to say that everything there was just a misunderstanding – or worse, that it'd be that girl showing up to ruin everything. It was somewhat of a relief that it was only the tree stump looking litigator she saw before. It really wasn't nice of him to let her think all that that last time and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of falling for it again… Not unless Harry said it anyway.

The old man didn't have anything to say to her though; he simply looked at Harry and said, "We have to talk."

.o0O0o.

"So Dumbledore really is my guardian?" he asked shocked as he sat down on his bed.

"No, what the memory showed was a quid pro quo," Lichfield said, pacing back and forth.

"A what?" Harry asked.

"A political trade of something for something else," the bailiff replied. "It's blatantly illegal, the whole thing was blatantly illegal, but that didn't stop them from doing it. Minister Bagnold – the former Minister – bought his silence by giving him you."

"So if they made him my guardian, how is he not my guardian?" he asked, desperately trying not to get lost with the legal stuff this time.

_'Where's Hermione when I need her?'_ he thought, and then thought better of it. The two of them being in his bedroom would give the guys enough ammunition for jokes until the end of time.

"First, because the way he became your guardian was illegal," Lichfield said, turning towards him and holding up a finger before adding another. "Second, because he still immediately abandoned you by placing you with those muggles. And thirdly," he recited, adding his thumb as if to make that point somehow before the others. "Because the way they disqualified the man who should've been your guardian was also illegal. He should've had first claim on you."

"Then who should've been my guardian?" Harry asked. "And why am I just hearing about this now?"

"Because of who the man is," Lichfield said evasively. "Your parents left your guardianship to the one person they trusted most, the man they made your godfather – Sirius Black."

Harry didn't know what to say to that, and it was made worse by Lichfield looking at him as if expecting an explosion.

"I have a godfather?" he asked, wondering why nobody had ever mentioned it to him before.

"The name Sirius Black doesn't mean anything to you?" the old bailiff asked with a look.

"No, should it?" he asked at a loss. "Hang on," Harry said, suddenly remembering something. "Is he related to Phineas Black, the Hogwarts Headmaster?"

"He's a common ancestor," Lichfield answered. "So you've really–"

"So we're related?" he asked, cutting in.

"You and he would be second cousins, not that that means anything really," his litigator replied. "Your grandmother was a Black and there are very few pureblood families they're not related to: Flint, Bulstrode, Crabbe, Crouch – you name it."

"The Malfoys?" Harry asked.

"You'd have to ask me that," Lichfield groaned, closing his eyes with a hand to his head like it hurt to think. "You'd be the second cousin, once removed, to the current Malfoy heir," he said slowly. "I think; it's been years since I had to think about any of this."

A stone formed in the pit of his stomach.

_'I'm related to Draco Malfoy?'_ Harry thought. Then again, if his grandmother was related to a bunch of goblin-hating bigots he didn't see how being even a little bit related to Malfoy should be a surprise. Something struck him as odd though.

"So I could have gone to the Malfoys to raise?" he asked horrified. If they had done such a bad job with their own son Harry didn't want to think what they would've made out of him.

"They may be the closest ones; I'd have to look it up," Lichfield said with a wave. "I think there may be a sister I'm forgetting though."

"Why couldn't I have been related to the Weasleys?" Harry asked, thinking of the happy family at the dinner table below them. "At least they're nice."

"Who says you're not," Lichfield said. "A hundred years ago everyone was marrying Blacks just for the chance at a bit of their money. Anyway, no getting me distracted," he gruffed. "If you wanted to be generous, it was probably keeping you out of the Malfoys' hands that had Dumbledore put you with the Dursleys in the first place."

"They're not any better," Harry said, before remembering the state Dobby had been in when he had first appeared in his room. Maybe the Dursleys were the tiniest bit better than the Malfoys on some things but put side-by-side it'd be hard to see any daylight between them.

"But they're not Death Eaters either," Lichfield replied. "And for all their claims of being Imperioused, it's an open secret that the Malfoys were right in You-Know-Who's inner circle."

"What's Imperioused?" Harry asked, getting another look from his lawyer for wasting time. "What? I've never heard of it before," he said honestly. Lichfield may complain he was constantly distracting him but if anyone had bothered to tell him anything in the first place then the man wouldn't have to.

"It's a highly illegal spell that basically lets someone take complete control of you," Lichfield responded quickly.

"So it turns you into a zombie?" he asked.

"What does the southern United States have to do with this?"

"What?" Harry asked, completely lost again.

"Forget it, never mind," Lichfield said, raising his hands up in front of him to ward off an onslaught of questions. "Placing you with the Dursleys might've seemed a kindness to Dumbledore's mind compared to the Malfoys, but he still violated Black's most basic civil rights in order to do it."

"But why was he put in prison?" Harry asked. "You never said that in the first place."

"No one's told you about Sirius Black?" Lichfield asked, looking at him strangely again.

"No," he said honestly. "The first time I heard of him was at the bank."

"Huh," the old bailiff grunted to himself.

"And if he was shoved in prison without a trial, why didn't anyone else fight it?" Harry asked.

"You mean besides the fact that everyone was too busy celebrating the end of the war?" Lichfield asked. "Because the worse the story is the faster people believe it. It's stupid, but it's true," he said with a wave. "And there's some that preferred to believe it. His own mother was one of those."

"What do you mean?"

The grizzled bailiff pulled out Harry's desk chair and settled into it with a scratch of his head as he gathered his thoughts.

"You mentioned Phineas Nigellius Black," Lichfield said by way of introduction. "Do you know how bigoted he was said to be?"

"I know his tenure was marked by strain with the goblins, division amongst the Houses, and the near abandonment of Hogsmeade," he recited, thanking Hermione for all the research she's ever done for them.

"That's putting it lightly," Lichfield said wryly. "And the bigotry didn't end there. It passed its way down the line and was reinforced by virtually every marriage they made – with some notable exceptions," he hastened to add. "Your grandmother, Dorea, cared more about whether people had money or not, but otherwise I wouldn't call her a bigot."

"What House were they in?" Harry asked quickly, thinking he'd never get a better chance than this to ask.

"Who?" the litigator asked looking confused at the sudden change of topic.

"My grandparents."

"Oh, you mean which Hogwarts House," Lichfield clarified. "Dorea was in Slytherin, which isn't that surprising since most Blacks were. Charlus and I were in Gryffindor, the same as you."

Harry bypassed how the man knew what House he was in to zone in on what was more important.

"A Slytherin and a Gryffindor? How'd that happen?"

"Well there are only four Houses to choose from and stranger things have happened," Lichfield said with a wave. "Like all these Weasleys being in Gryffindor, that's downright strange. Your grandmother thought James was a shoo-in for Ravenclaw but the boy idealized his father too much for that."

"I thought you said you didn't know him that well," Harry said.

"You want to hear this or not?" Lichfield asked with a perturbed look on his face. After a moment he took his silence as a yes. "So the Black Family was a bunch of lousy people with a couple decent ones thrown in," his lawyer summed up quickly. "Sirius Black was supposed to be one of those: a Gryffindor like your father, his best friend, Best Man at his wedding, part of the same vigilante group as your parents–"

"Vigilantes?" he asked stunned.

"Your father had a very – colorful past when it came to doing questionable things," his litigator said judiciously.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, fearing the worst. Vigilantes were a far cry from being lay about drunks that the Dursleys had called them but he still didn't want to think of them doing anything illegal.

"Well, at Hogwarts your father tended to spend more time in Detention than he did in the library if the disciplinary letters were anything to go by," Lichfield said with a grin. "He may have been a little spoiled," he said wryly. "Maybe more than a little, but living in the middle of nowhere and being able to afford the latest, fastest broom's been known to have that effect on people."

Harry didn't know what do make about any of that, but one thing was certain. Lichfield knew a lot more about his father than he was letting on.

"But how does he go from that to being vigilantes?" he asked, trying to pull more out of the old man.

"As I said, your father had a colorful past," Lichfield said. "Not long before he died your father asked me a question; it happened to be one of two questions _his_ father asked just before he had died. The first one was to find out the likely sentence an unregistered Animagus would face if they were caught," the old man said meaningfully.

"An Ani-what?"

"Ah, they must not have covered that yet," the old man said with a roll of his eyes. "An Animagus is a witch or wizard that can become an animal," he explained.

"My father was a werewolf?" Harry asked stunned.

"No, no, werewolves are different," Lichfield said quickly. "But that was the question they both asked: how would they go about leaving a bequest to a werewolf. Your father got a kick out of that when I told him," he said with a grin. "He shut up though when I told him about the Animagus bit."

Lichfield went on when he saw that he clearly didn't understand what the man was trying to tell him.

"Your father had some interesting friends," he said finally. "Some might say 'reckless.' I never found out for sure which was the werewolf and which the Animagus, but my money was on James being the Animagus. Charlus would've told me if the boy had been bitten, though how he thought I'd get your dad out of a ten year prison sentence for the other, I have no way of knowing."

"He could've spent ten years in prison?" Harry asked.

"If he was an Animagus, and if he was caught before he registered, yes," Lichfield said with a shrug. "But finding one of them is almost as difficult as becoming one in the first place; it's not a common thing to do, or all that useful from what I've read. And don't bother asking me what he was," he said when Harry opened his mouth to ask that very thing. "He could've been a psychedelic peacock for all I know or he could've been a dormouse – if he was an Amimagus at all.

"Anyway, this is a very long way of saying that your father had a general disregard for the rules," Lichfield said trying to regain control of the conversation, though Harry was glad that he shared something more with his father than just his last name and appearance. "Sirius Black was much the same and didn't seem to follow the pureblood bigotry that the rest of his family did. He even went so far as to run away from home when he was sixteen to live with your father and grandparents."

That suddenly put a different spin on things for Harry. With the talk of them running around breaking the law had made them seem like gangsters but now it looked a lot more like what things were like with him and the Weasleys. He, Ron, and Hermione had all broken dozens of school rules to get the Sorcerer's Stone, though he didn't know about breaking any laws, at least not personally.

"So why's this man in prison?" he asked.

"Because the only person who stood up for him was Dumbledore," Lichfield said. "Everyone was sure he was guilty by the time they heard he was in prison, and by then other things had happened to push it from their mind. Even I got distracted by a load of other things," he admitted. "That's the way life works."

"But why would his own parents want him in prison?" Harry asked, remembering what Lichfield had said before.

"Because him being guilty meant that he had seen the light and become a good boy again," Lichfield scoffed. "I heard they had disinherited him years before but reversed it because to them he was better off as a convicted criminal than as a free man, because if he was guilty that meant their son had shared their views and was imprisoned for 'a lost but noble cause.'"

"Wait, I don't get it," he said, trying to put the pieces together in spite of the large gaps he still had.

Lichfield was obviously going out of his way to not say something, but why would he not want to say it? If Sirius Black had run away to stay with his grandparents because his own family was lousy then how could him being in jail be a noble thing for them? Had they changed their minds when he had gone 'vigilante' on the Death Eaters or something? It almost sounded like–

Suddenly he felt a sinking sensation, like he was about to leak through the bed and every floor below him.

"He changed his mind, didn't he?" Harry asked Lichfield. "Sirius Black changed his mind."

"That's what everyone thought," the bailiff said. "Back then everyone was paranoid. Between the killings, disappearances, and people being Imperioused left and right, no one knew who to trust. And when whole families were threatened because of what one of them thought – suddenly, not thinking that way anymore seemed a very wise thing to do, as far as your safety was concerned.

"Sirius never struck me as a coward though," Lichfield said, and Harry noted the use of just the first name. "It's the why that's bothering me. _Why_ did he do it? And why are we more than ten years later and no one's ever bothered to check?"

That was when something that had been lurking in the back of his mind shifted into place.

"Why would Black have been thrown in prison after my parents' deaths unless he was the one responsible for it?"

It was the silence and the scrutinizing look from Lichfield that let him know that he had said that out loud.

"We don't know why he did it," his grizzled old bailiff said. "And we only have Dumbledore's word that Black was their Secret Keeper in the first place."

"Their what?" Harry asked, hoping for something else to poke this bigoted Black with.

"Something that sounds bad for him if you don't stop to think about it for more than half a second," Lichfield said gruffly. "The fact is that we don't know anything about what happened that night. Who was involved, how you survived, how You-Know-Who knew where to find you – none of it makes any sense."

"So they should just let Black go because something doesn't make sense to you?" Harry said hotly, suddenly standing with his hands at his side clinched as fists. "The wizarding world makes less sense the more I learn about it, does that mean we should let everyone out of prison? What makes sense is that Sirius Black told Voldemort how to find my parents. Why else wouldn't you be saying it?"

"Because he was a good kid!" Lichfield said as he stood as well. "A rule breaker, sure, but who isn't at their age? That doesn't mean that he should rot in Azkaban when we don't know why it happened."

"Who cares why!" Harry cried. "They're my parents! He deserves to be punished for what he did!"

"He may not have had a choice!" Lichfield fought back. "Betraying them meant betraying your entire family: you, your parents, and your grandparents. There's no way that he would have done all that, none, not once Charlus took him in."

"And who said he cared about that?" he shot back. "Who says he cared about any of it? Maybe he just wanted the Black money. How do you know he wasn't out for himself?"

"Because he would've died before doing any of that," Lichfield said forcefully.

"Then he should have!" Harry said.

_'He should have been the one to die,_' he thought. If he had been then his parents would've been the one who lived and he never would've gone to the Dursleys.

"So you're content just to be ignorant on this for the rest of your life?" Lichfield asked.

"Why not?" he replied. "You seem to content to keep me ignorant about everything else."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"For all your talk, you've barely told me anything useful since this whole thing began," Harry said hotly. "You've played hide-and-seek with information about my family, lied about not knowing them when it suited you, and yet you're springing it on me now like it's some sort of prize. You never told me about owning the land we're on _right now_ when it could've made things easier and had me doubting people who are actually my friends, and for what, some personal crusade against Dumbledore?

"And thinking of him as some evil, untrustworthy old man out to steal my parents' money is fine by you," Harry went on to say. "But him sticking up for someone you like is all you need and you're ready to throw open the prison doors and let everyone out, because that's what makes sense to you. Well, sorry if I disagree, but isn't there some actual work you should be doing or has this whole thing been about wasting time? The only thing I've actually heard you do is kidnap Mrs. Figg."

"I'm not in the habit of explaining myself to children, detailing how I operate, or bringing up things I don't want to talk about," Lichfield growled.

"Well then get used to it," Harry said forcefully. "You said a litigator's job is to get done what I want done so that means I'm your boss. I don't care about some godfather I never knew or a Minister I've never heard of. I don't want to fix the world, and I don't need someone to act like the guardian I never had; I've been taking care of myself well enough on my own. I just want Dumbledore punished for sending me to the Dursleys and I want to be free of all of them. You said it'd be easy, so do you think you can manage that?"

With a _pop!_ Lichfield disappeared, leaving a seething Harry in his wake. No matter what the old man on the Knight Bus had said about it, if it meant being able to get away from people he didn't want to talk to anymore then Apparition was definitely something he wanted to learn.

As he flopped down on his bed Harry didn't think that he was being unreasonable. What did he care about Sirius Black, Nicholas Flamel, or Minister Bagnold and why should he have to fix everyone's problems? His problem was Dumbledore and the Dursleys and the sooner Lichfield got that taken care of the better off he'd be.

Another small _pop!_ a short time later had him look over to see Dobby uncertainly place a plate heaped with food on the desk. For once the sight of the little elf didn't make him feel any better. He may be taking his sweet time on everything and was prone to go gallivanting off on something completely unrelated if given half a chance but Lichfield had somehow managed to track down Dobby and arrange for Harry to buy him without the Malfoys ever knowing it was him.

When Dobby disappeared another ill feeling settled in his stomach that had nothing to do with food. The Weasleys must've been able to hear their shouting match from down in the dining room and he certainly didn't want to have to go back down there again tonight.

.o0O0o.

Lichfield found himself staring at a large black and white muggle picture. The sudden change was rather jarring but it was better than being yelled at. He didn't know who the old man with the frizzy mustache and wispy, white flyaway hair was but the way he had his tongue stuck out in defiance of any kind of propriety almost had him liking wherever it was he happened to be. But when it came to that…

"Where the bloody hell am I?" he asked aloud as he looked around.

"You're in my bedroom," came a female voice behind him.

Turning around he saw the wild-haired little Lady-wife of his mop-headed, pint-sized boss. When he took the job Charlus had hinted that things could get rather strained when one generation handed things off to a new one. The bailiff that had the position before him – some man named Longfellow – had simply quit when their personalities had clashed too much, and while Lester had never foreseen it being a problem for him he also had never foreseen a twelve year old handing him his ass and telling him to get back to work.

_'Too much of the auror had crept back in over the years,_' he thought ruefully. _'Or it had always been there and Charlus had never said anything about it. Might've been the reason James had never trusted me with their plans in the first place, the gruff distance made me his father's man liable to reprimand him, not someone he could count on.'_

"Well, now that I know where I am would you mind telling me how the hell I got here?" he asked, the girl's look drew down a bit as if she wanted to take him to task for his language.

_'I can curse if I want, she's not my boss,_' he thought as Mipsy appeared by the girl's leg and gave him a happy smile.

"I asked Mipsy to see if you could come over," the Hermione girl said a little formally. "I didn't think she'd kidnap you."

"I didn't know you could do that," Lester said to himself more than anyone else as the elf gave him a bit of a chagrined look. "Why the hell am I Apparating, flooing, and walking to work if you could just take me there directly?"

Mipsy gave him a shrug like all he'd had to do was ask.

"Anyway," the girl continued, rising from her desk chair. "I wanted to thank you for sending Mipsy to me the other night, it was – very educational."

"Yeah, well, you're welcome," he replied somewhat at a loss for what else to say. Working for Gringotts for so long had made him somewhat of a foreigner when it came to niceties. "I could see how coming from your world into ours raised a lot of questions for you about things most people never even thought about so I thought this might give a different perspective on things."

The girl nodded thoughtfully on that.

"It certainly did," she said, though she didn't look like she had come to any definite answers on anything. "And seeing how much she likes to work," the girl continued with a glance down at the elf. "If you ever run out of things for her to do, I wanted to let you know that you can send her to me for any extra work we might be able to come up with. I'm not sure how that would work with payment though," she said finally.

The bit at the end drew a horrified look from Mipsy at the thought of any payment getting made at all, but it did give Lester an idea.

"I'm fine with the extra work if she is," he agreed to find his leg quickly hugged by an overexcited elf. "Well I guess that settles it then. Oh, Mipsy," he said, giving her a poke on the head. "There was a lot of very good smelling food at the Weasleys just a moment ago that got me very hungry. Could you go home and make me something to eat? I'll be there soon."

"Mister Lichy wants the soup?" Mipsy asked happily.

"Mister Lichy wants anything Mipsy wants to make for him," he said with a smile.

As he watched, Mipsy's mouth drooped open and her little hands started vibrating with joy. She then hugged him then disappeared with a _pop!_

"That would have seemed very strange to me yesterday," the girl said finally.

"She's kind of strange every day," he replied. "But I'm not one to talk; there's something to be said for a little strangeness," Lester said, gesturing to the mad muggle on the wall. "Anyway, I'm fine with her working however much she wants, but you don't need to be paying me for it." In a hushed tone he said, "Don't tell her this, but technically, I don't own her."

.o0O0o.

After the cavernous blackness of the hub-like antechamber before the one that followed was full of sparkling light so bright that it was almost blinding; through his magical eye the sight was actually worse. Golden lines and sigils were everywhere, covering every object and every surface, some runes crammed together so tightly that you couldn't tell where one ended and the next began and a mysterious ticking noise seemed to come from everywhere.

_'There has to be more enchanted objects in this one room than in the rest of the country,_' Alastor thought as he shut himself off from the painful images.

As his natural eye adjusted to the light he caught a glimpse of what those objects were. Clocks gleamed from every surface, large and small, grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between bookcases or standing on desks around the room. The bright white light itself was coming from a large bell jar that stood at the far end of the room and seemed to be full of swirling wind or water.

"This way," Croaker called from somewhere inside the room.

He hated going in anywhere blindly and certainly wasn't going to give the impression he was weak to anyone that might be watching. His magical eye darting about like mad, even while he was pushing those images away, Alastor entered the room as if he could see everything there was to see and closed the door behind him.

The _thunk_ of his artificial leg made him stop and actually peer through the magical eye for a moment to see that the spell he'd cast to muffle his steps had disappeared. Looking back at the door he saw the ingenious little solution to their identity problem that Saul had come up with. He'd enchanted his door to forcibly remove all stealth, concealment, or other means of disguise from anyone who entered.

_'Smart,_' he thought. _'They don't call him "the Professor" now for nothing it seems._'

As he moved through the room to find Saul, Alastor got a better look at what the man did down here and what he saw he didn't like. He would have thought that a man with his history would stay away from studying Time; anyone with any sense would. That hummingbird they had locked in the bell jar constantly going from egg to full grown and back again was just sick. It was what he saw when he glanced to his right though that really made him want to run.

"Are you sure you should be playing with that?" Alastor asked the man who was hunched over a workbench with his wand pointed at a tiny golden hourglass.

Sparing him a glance Saul asked, "Why? What do you think's going to happen?"

"I don't know," Alastor said roughly, slowly backing away. "And I don't want to find out."

"And why would you come to the Department of Mysteries if you didn't want to figure things out?" Saul asked with a furtive grin.

"To pick your brain but I'm not mad enough to be in the same room with you if you're going to be playing with that," he said definitively. He had seen plenty of people die before but never in the way Lichfield had described; he was old enough already.

"What precisely do you think this is?" the other man asked with a nod to the hourglass.

"It's one of those – things, isn't it? The ones your lot made," the auror said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He had not signed up for this.

Saul Croaker looked at him a moment before he spoke.

"I would point out the humor in asking an Unspeakable to speak about their work, but I'll let that speak for itself," he said with a smile as he put away his wand. "But to set your mind at ease, no, this is not a Bio-Temporal Stabilization Device – or 'Stiller' as the public called them. A stupid name in my opinion."

"Then what is it?" Alastor asked, earning another amused look from Saul. _'The man's going to do this every time I ask something._' "I assume it's not going to do what those Stillers did," he added, succeeding in making that bit not sound like a question.

"Carefully avoiding anything that might be construed as speaking the Unspeakable," Saul said, "I would have to say that I'm not particularly keen on repeating my experience with Mintumble's Temporal Dysplasia – What I call what 'the Stillers did to my lot.'"

Alastor's lips writhed with the effort not to press the man or to drag him out of the room by his hair.

"Have you ever heard of Eloise Mintumble?" the infuriating Unspeakable asked. "A fascinating story – not Secret or Unspeakable in any way – just something the Ministry doesn't want people to know, which I find are the most interesting things to know, don't you?"

Moody wondered where the man was going with this.

"Ms. Mintumble was an Unspeakable that worked here around the turn of the century," Saul continued. "She and the team she was a part of were working on the same basic Mystery I do."

"Time."

"Quite," the Unspeakable replied. "Somehow in the process of one experiment or other the poor woman found herself stuck for five days in the year 1402."

"That's imp–," he started to say before cutting himself off with a glance at the ever-cycling hummingbird.

"Impossible?" Saul Croaker asked. "Now who's to say when you're dealing with Time, for truly it's a bizarre bazaar of possibilities. Would you like to guess what happened when they finally got her back?"

"She died," Alastor answered.

"To put it succinctly: yes," Saul smiled. "Death comes to all in the end though, but that's a different Mystery entirely. How she died was what had this entire Mystery shut down for more than fifty years, for aging five hundred in the span of hours is not an experiment you want to repeat."

"So that's what happened to you?" Alastor asked trying to get the man to sum things up.

"Yes, ...and no," he said unobligingly. "We never traveled in time, for all they call us Lost – Tell me," Saul interrupted himself. "Is Lichfield still alive? Pity. The man should count himself lucky he only lost fifty or sixty years, though I presume he's just been waiting to die since then," he quickly continued. "No, what we did was try to stand still and be young forever – hence the horrible name Stiller and 'Stiller's Sorrow.' The Ministry may not want the fate of poor Ms. Mintumble to get out but I'll always call it after her. After all, if more people had listened to me about her in the first place they wouldn't have rushed and Time might not have wandered off with us."

Alastor had to wonder if time had wondered off with the man's wits; he was starting to prefer the man when he was angry.

"I do so find it freeing to speak to someone again," Saul said with a pleasant grin and a stretch. "Even in a round about way. Bode is friendly enough but everyone else avoids me when I'm in here and refuses to work with me. I don't know why, it's not like Mintumble's is catching – except in that one case, but I always thought the man was a buffoon. He should have just let his wife take her chances on her own, but I suppose he'd say that was impossible.

"Speaking of impossibilities though, the Mystery of Ms. Mintumble gets far more interesting from there," said the Unspeakable who won't shut up. "The Tuesday after she returned lasted two and a half days, Thursday was four hours long, and twenty-five people just popped out of existence," he said with a maddening grin.

"How the bloody hell does that happen?" he asked.

"Ah ha!" Saul said with a finger in the air. "And there's the question that began all of my work. Well, except for the cursing; I don't usually do that – The earlier 'son-of-a-bitch' aside that is. Anger is the death of Reason. But answer me this – you and me, right now, when are we?"

"Around seven-thirty – eight o'clock at night," Alastor answered.

"That's just what the clock would say," Saul chided. "What section of Time is it though: Past, Present, or Future?"

"This is the present, obviously."

"Are you sure about that?" the talkative Unspeakable asked. "If another Mintumble appeared right here, right now, from five hundred years in the future, which would it be then? And what if they came from the Past instead?"

"I guess that'd be somewhat subjective," Alastor replied. "Do you talk like this all the time?" he asked, thinking he knew now why everyone really avoided the man.

"Only to myself," Croaker admitted. "Though I suppose I should've answered a little less honestly on that."

"You're a muggleborn, aren't you?" Alastor asked, wanting to make sure of the man's views.

"What gave it away?" he asked. "It was using the word 'dysplasia,' wasn't it? An oddly medical word for the wizarding world; I keep forgetting that I should dumb things down. So what do you have for me?" Croaker asked. "Is it interesting?"

"It has nothing to do with Time," Moody said, for once glad to be back on soothing topics like still-living Dark Wizards bent on enslavement and world conquest.

"Well, nothing's perfect, but as long as it's interesting..."

"It's a memory," Moody said, not wanting to let the man verbally wander off again. "And what it contains is so secret it's beyond Unspeakable."

"Is it now?" the Unspeakable asked. "Now I'm interested."

"I've got a pensieve if you can free up some space," Alastor said, gesturing to the table.

"No need, no need," Saul said with a wave. "We've got better. You just go through that door there," he gestured to the door across from him. "I'll be in with you presently. I just want to finish this up," the Unspeakable said, turning back to squint at the small golden hourglass.

Stepping through the door he indicated, Moody found himself in a dimly lit rectangular room with tiers of stone benches descending to recessed pit below. There, standing on a raised stone dais in front of a large crumbling archway was Saul Croaker. Quickly he spun back to the room he just left and kept his magical eye on the Saul in the new room.

"No, no, don't tell me," the Saul he just left said with a shooing gesture. "You just shut the door. I want to find out for myself."

From his magical eye he saw the second Saul toss a tiny object away from him and blast it with his wand, causing a brilliant explosion of magical energy. When his sight cleared, he saw it happen in reverse and the whole thing play itself out again. Battling every instinct he learned in his career, Alastor closed the door, drew his wand, and walked around the room staying well away from the second Saul.

"Don't you think you've done that enough?" he called when he'd gotten almost in front of the man.

"Do what?" the second Saul asked, stopping short of tossing whatever it was the sixth or seventh time through.

_'Merlin! He can't have been doing what I think he was doing,_' he thought wildly with a glance at the door he'd come through._ 'The man would have to be mad._'

"I'd ask you what happened after I did what I haven't done yet," Saul Croaker said quizzically. "But then it'd bring up a host of interesting things to talk about – none of which are what you're here to show me. Well, this way," he said cheerfully, gesturing to another door. This time walking to meet him there.

"I'd tell you that I'm really me," this Saul said when they got close. "But if I weren't me I'd tell you I was really me too, so that doesn't get us anywhere. Likewise I'd explain what I was doing when you stopped me from doing it, but that'd be speaking the Unspeakable and you'd have to transfer to my department first. Anyway," the odd uncanny Unspeakable said as he opened the door. "Welcome to the room we keep our brains."

.o0O0o.

"So what do you think?" Alastor asked as the memory flickered off the clunky repurposed muggle device.

"The memory's been censored," Saul said.

"Yes, I noticed that and you mentioned it before," he replied.

"Well I don't like partial recollections," the Unspeakable fussed. "Who knows what pertinent information he left out with his clumbsy Oblivations?"

"What did you think about what it showed?" Alastor pressed.

"I wonder..."

Twiddling with a dial, Saul reversed the memory.

_"I have form only when I can share another's body..._" the specter of Voldemort rasped. Saul then skipped forward a little. _"Unicorn blood has strengthened me–._" He then skipped back again, _"Share another's body–._" Alastor tried to contain his growing frustration but soon it became a constant stream of: _"Unicorn blood – Body – Unicorn blood – Body – Unicorn – Body – Unicorn – Body – Unicorn – Body._"

"Will you stop that!" he snapped, rubbing his temple where he had a grinding headache growing. "Do you know how he did it?"

"Yes, I think I do," Saul said with a giddy grin. "I've read bits of ancient magical rites where the subject would take into themselves conflicting sources of magical power – the more extreme and diametrically opposed the better. Then, if it didn't kill you, there's a chance the sympathies of the two would begin to work in concert, augmenting the natural abilities of the body and freeing you of the reliance on the artificial focus!"

"What?" Alastor asked, feeling like a flippin' First Year again.

"Well, you saw him," Saul said, gesturing to what he called a screen. "He did wandless magic. I'd wager that the presence of a non-native soul, in the body, that was suffused with a substance what was both blessing and curse–"

"I'm not interested in wandless magic," he said roughly, trying to keep the Unspeakable from running off again.

"Well why not?" the man asked. "It was by far the most interesting thing there."

"I'm far more concerned with how a long-dead Dark Wizard's not dead, and I thought you would be too," Alastor said.

"Oh, no," Saul said, getting to his feet and putting the memory back into its vial. "I'm still my own Secret Keeper. I'll be fine if he shows up again."

"And would you mind sharing with me how he'd be able to do that?"

"Not at all, but that'd be speaking the Unspeakable and there's only one way I can do that," Croaker said with a grin.

.o0O0o.

It was a rather tight squeeze for the ones coming up the tunnel that had covertly connected the bowels of Gringotts to the seemingly abandoned warehouses since the days they had been workhouses and orphanages. It was a pity they had to concentrate their diet to lower animals that couldn't talk or carry weapons, he had wondered occasionally how human tasted.

Despite the workers' best efforts a handful of Curse-Breakers had been drafted at the last moment to get the tunnels appropriately widened, but everyone knew better than to complain or to talk about anything they knew or suspected. Either of those tonight would find the one responsible for it at the wrong end of a dragon.

As the fifth and final mass of muscle, scale, and wing emerged from the tunnel, a good two dozen Enforcers on its back, Gutripper couldn't help but to grin. He had never thought the bumbling, careful, human-loving Overseer of Hereditary Accounts could ever be a proper Grand Overseer – or a proper goblin at all – but this stroke of genius would scour any vestige of doubt from anyone's mind as to what their status was in the world. They were the Gringotts Goblins and the Ministry would hear them roar!

With a shout of victory in their native tongue he gave the signal to fly. And with cumbersome steps and the beat of leathery wings, the goblins took to the sky. Tonight it started; tomorrow, everything would change.

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** As always, thanks for reading.


	25. They're on the Backs of Dragons

**AN:** The hints I peppered through the last chapter seemed rather obvious to me but in retrospect I might've been a little too vague when describing the secret goblin plans. But then again, if it were all that obvious it wouldn't be a secret plan, now would it? In the end I decided to do what any goblin would: get fed up, screw subtlety, and just spell everything out.

.o0O0o.

_'__Only tiny sparks of light joined the great glowing orb to break up the cavernous dark above as the beat of the great beast's mighty wings jostled him with every flap, threatening to plunge him to a gruesome death below._'

Oreshaft shook his head and curled into his grandfather's old cat fur lined mining coat to protect himself against the wind as he gripped the cold iron pin to his left that kept him strapped to the monster's scaly back. What he had come up with so far during the flight didn't sound particularly grand in his head; it certainly wasn't enough to capture the mind and inspire generations of goblins after him, and the story of this day was sure to be told for generations to come. He knew that his part in it would have to be truly glorious if he was to set himself apart, for only those who did would thrive.

The rumors filtering down to the Barracks from Above for the past day or more was full of exciting chatter. New ideas were being thrown around like they weren't coming from Enforcers at all but a gang of kids playing Dodge Rock on the Training Grounds. The rumor about freer fraternization with the females on their level – the maids, cooks, scullions, and occasional crafter that helped make the Barracks level run – was a tempting proposition, but he didn't think any of it was likely to happen. Then again, Oreshaft had never thought he'd be where he was now either; being on the Surface was one thing, but why in Gott's name did it have to be on the back of a–

_"__It's cold!"_ came a voice from behind him in the harshly accented goblin that was spoken in the deepest tunnels.

_ "__They said to dress warmly,_" he replied curtly, knowing that he shouldn't respond for it wouldn't do any good. The other Squad Leader had been complaining so often though that ignoring him had proven impossible. _"You should have done so._"

_"__This is the Upside,_" Ragnan barked, elbowing him in the back as he turned as much as he could to face him. _"The Upside is supposed to be warm._"

"The Surface," Oreshaft said in proper Human, keeping his sight directed the way he was strapped in; he was in no hurry to see Ragnan's ugly scar again. _"Not the Upside,_ Surface."

_"__Whatever,_" the other Squad Leader said practically right in his ear. _"Whatever you call it, this place is supposed to be warm, with a bright flaming thing above so we can see. That – that – thing–_"

From Ragnan's wild gestures that he glimpsed from the corner of his eye and the description Oreshaft knew he had to be speaking of the big orb-like thing in the black dome above.

_'__The sky,_' Oreshaft reminded himself. Precious few Enforcers ever gained positions near the Surface that would show them the sky and those positions were dearly prized. _'It's not a dome, not a cave, not a cavern, and there is nothing beyond it. It is the sky._'

The thought that there was nothing but nothingness above him was uncomfortable. What if he somehow fell upwards into this 'sky' and was swallowed up by its many new words? Would there be nothing to stop him until he could grab hold of the–

"Moon," Oreshaft called over his shoulder to Ragnan. _"That thing is_ _the_ Moon."

_"__That _Moon_ is not on fire,_" the other goblin complained. _"It's cold, it's dark, and the _Moon _is not on fire._"

Ragnan was right, the Moon wasn't on fire. For some reason Oreshaft didn't think it should be though but he wasn't sure why. Their briefing had been full of all those new Human words that it was easy to get confused. What was that other word…?

_"__The _Moon_ is not on fire,_" he agreed, calling back over his shoulder to the other Squad Leader. _"I do not think it burns. The_ Sun_ is the one on fire._"

"Sun? _What _Sun?" Ragnan asked gesturing again. _"There is no _Sun_. Gutripper sent us here to freeze._"

His grip on the iron pin tightened for a moment as Ragnan settled back around in his seat. Grumbling about a superior wasn't that uncommon but for basic survival even the most disgruntled goblin kept it to the one set directly above them and only spoke of it in private. Conflicting with an Overseer – and with Gutripper in particular – just wasn't done. He was considered to be the most dangerous creature in the bowels of Gringotts and not the cave spiders, the shadow snakes, or the goblins from Below were as feared as him. Some Enforcers even claim that he had once killed a dragon but no one was insane enough to poke around to find out if that was true just in case what might happen to you if you found out it was false.

Oreshaft glanced to his left at the long line goblins that were strapped in just as he was. If word got back to Overseer Gutripper that a Squad Leader had spoken against him then he might just end them both to make sure it didn't happen again. They were supposed to be his Squad, his first command, but they had just been thrown together and didn't know him any more than he knew them. Oreshaft didn't know if this mission was the start of something new but being on the Surface was at least a chance to never see the Tunnels or Below again and that meant that this was a test.

The Overseers might not have purposely put them there to freeze but the odds of the Flight's success must have been extremely uncertain or they would have assigned more senior and proven Squads to the task rather than make new ones specifically for it. Why else would they make Squads of eleven members? They had to be strapping as many goblins on as possible in hope that some might make it to the other end. And with two Squads per Flight, no Team Leader over them in the chain of command, and two Handlers to serve as pilot and navigator to carry them where they needed to go, was that why he had been paired with Ragnan?

Ragnan was outwardly bitter now that he had an ounce of authority but he'd always been weak, and expendable since Gutripper had pressed that ugly face against a stone grinder like it was the flat of an axe. He had thought to rise to greatness by contesting Gutripper's promotion to Squad Leader more than two decades ago, if rumors were true. Some had said that he was lucky to still have both eyes; later it became lucky to still be alive as the one who'd done it continued his climb over the bodies of those above him, but in truth it had been cowardice that sent Ragnan's life into a dive faster than an uncontrolled cart ride after that.

All respect amongst the other Enforcers gone, he'd been banished to the worst patrols in the deepest, darkest tunnels, the female he had acquired left him and went to Gutripper, only to give him a son shortly after – though some said that it was Ragnan's sister that he taken to further spite him. No one knew, or cared really since Ragnan had been too weak to shave his head and seek vengeance over it. If he had the whole matter would've been over one way or the other, with victory or death. In the end people left him alone because of his scar and didn't want to draw the wrong kind of attention to themselves – the very kind of attention that he had drenched him with.

Oreshaft knew that something would have to be done about that before the stink of it strangled him and snuffed out any chance he had. If it had been him he would've preferred death, better that than to live out the rest of your life a walking testament to someone else's greatness. But how was he supposed to get out of this mess when they were facing the wrong way and couldn't reach their weapons? It wasn't like they could continue to talk for long; neither would have a scrap of authority left if they bickered in front of the others. Something decisive had to be done.

He improved his grip around the leather strap and iron pin before turning to address Ragnan.

_"__I don't think they sent us here to freeze,_" Oreshaft said over the biting wind. _"The Overseer wouldn't send us if he wanted us dead._"

Ragnan turned towards him quickly.

_"__He'd send me,_" he replied, baring the ruined side of his face. _"He's always wanted me dead._"

_"__Is it the cold that's frozen your hand to that pin or is it fear?"_ Oreshaft laughed as a plan formed in his mind. The other goblin's face turned even uglier as it snarled. _"If the Overseer wanted you dead he could have killed you at any time, he wouldn't have given you a command,_" he lied, sure there had to be at least one in that Squad placed there because they would be looking for a promotion paid for by assassinating his superior.

_"__Think about it,_" he continued. _"He sent you down into the deepest pits and the darkest tunnels for years and you've managed to fight and claw your way back stronger than before. And look at where we are!"_ Oreshaft cried, gesturing around him with his free hand. _"We're doing what no goblin's ever done before. Do you think it'll be the last time? He's going to need strong leaders for anything they do next. Believe me, I wish I were in your position. He may have fought you once but he knows you're strong. Your face proves that._"

The look in Ragnan's eye turned thoughtful and for a moment he forgot himself enough to raise his left hand to the ruined side of his face. In a flash Oreshaft's right hand darted around to the unprotected pin on Ragnan's left.

_"__But you're not strong enough!"_ he cried, yanking the pin free from the latch.

_"__NO!"_ Ragnan screamed, scrambling about clumsily as he started to fall away.

The excited shrieks from the right side Squad drew the great beast's attention and it was all the pilot could do to keep the serpentine neck from twisting back towards them as its leathery wings beat quickly. Oreshaft smiled as the commotion grew and couldn't help but laugh. It seemed that the Squad's titular leader had latched onto the legs of the goblin next to him and refused to let go. The whole world heaved as the Beast roared and tried to turn in place, dangling them about in midair. To the right – or maybe above them – the navigator clung to the pilot in front of him as he started shaking a loud metallic clanker to regain control.

_"__Just die, Ragnan!"_ Oreshaft shouted as a bright gout of flame blinded them momentarily. _"You should have done it years ago. Someone kill him!"_

The noise from the other side died down suddenly, leaving the flap of the wings to battle with their beating hearts to see which would settle faster as the pilot brought the heaving under control before anyone else was lost. After they had regained a stable flight Oreshaft spoke again.

_"__What happened?"_ he asked. _"Report!"_ he ordered.

_"__I – uh...,_" one goblin behind him said, as if unsure he was supposed to be speaking. _"I hit him. He fell._"

_"__Good,_" he replied wondering if Ragnan would be hitting stone or water below. _"I'm taking control of this Flight as Team Leader. You have command of the six next to you; I'm keeping the six next to me. And to the rest of you – I'm looking for another Squad Leader so you'd best stay on your toes._" After a second he snapped, _"Do you understand?!"_

_"__YES, SIR!"_ they replied loudly, drawing another roar from the Beast, as if it too acknowledged him.

One Team of three Squads with seven members sounded a much better arrangement to him than just piling everyone onboard and seeing how it worked out. Keeping a death grip on his own safety strap, Oreshaft called to the pilot.

_"__How much further?"_ he asked.

The pilot looked back briefly but didn't respond. The navigator though pulled out a small disk on a gold chain to check with before speaking.

"A few hours," he replied in Human that was much better than he could manage. The Handlers' goggles and scarves might help against the wind but they made them look ridiculous. "We're not to be seen before time. Hang on though; it's time for a turn," the navigator said before tapping the pilot in front of him twice on the right shoulder.

_"__Brace yourselves,_" Oreshaft ordered his Team a moment before the Beast banked so sharply that for a long moment he was looking at nothing but the tiny bits of light while the other side saw nothing but the darkness that had swallowed their last Squad Leader.

When the banking turn was over he noticed that something was happening in front of them. The sparks of light didn't suddenly end and a line of blackness begin anymore, now there was a color and as he watched more colors joined it. There was a pale blue like a sock that was so faded that it hardly had any black dye left in it at all, and there were pale reds and yellows like the faint embers of a dying torch – and there were other things in the sky with them too! Not the other Flights that'd be behind them but puffed clumps like floating balls of pillow fluff hanging in the air.

"What – what is this?" he asked the navigator, for surely they had enough contact with the Surface to know the word he sought.

"It's dawn," he replied from their seats at the base of the Beast's serpentine neck. "It means the sun is rising."

Oreshaft nodded numbly as he put Ragnan's safety pin into his pocket as a trophy. He would have to practice and become more comfortable with his Human if he wanted to stay near the Surface. Still with his hand around his own pin for safety he glanced at the Squad on his side. Their eyes were wide to take in all the new things to see with a look of wonder on their faces that he knew he shared, but what they thought of it they kept to themselves. A goblin's first journey to the Surface was said to be a wondrous thing, and now he knew why. How could you even begin to describe the experience to those who would never see it?

The sparks above dwindled and died as the colors spread across the sky and Oreshaft couldn't resist leaning over to see what was below them. It looked to be a lake so large that it went on without end and the color reflected that of the sky above them. But even with that marvelous sight, the most spectacular thing came next. It was like the colors gave birth to molten gold so bright that all words failed him. This had to be the Sun. It was too bright to see any flames on it but he could not deny its light; it even started to feel warmer, even with the wind.

Whoever was running things now had to be greater than Gotts himself; only that would have had them bring any of them out at all. He had yet to hear of anyone taking the Grand Overseer's place but only a dramatic change in Management could have seen goblins that had never been outside of the Tunnels flying on the back of the Beast into the Sun's light on their way to crush the foes that defied them.

_'__The Beast,_' Oreshaft thought fondly as he bent over to pat the animal's scaly back. It was a fitting name for a big bull dragon but it seemed quite docile... once you got the large group saddle on that is. Hasty work, but besides the 'faulty safety pin' that would need to be revised, that wizard they had gotten had done a good job designing it.

.o0O0o.

_'__Every day is a new start and there was no better time to reinvent yourself than now,_' the-diary-that-was-Tom had said and as the sun rose over the Burrow a refreshed young Weasley was certainly going to be doing that.

Writing to Tom had her sleep really well again so even if he wasn't that social when it came to other people it felt nice to write everything out at the end of the day, so even if she had Luna back as a friend there was no reason to bin him. It would've been a horrible thing to do if he were real, so how could it be any different just because Tom's a book? Luna hadn't been able to stay the night but her mum had said that she could come over today and any time she wanted, so things were definitely looking up.

Still, she felt kind of bad when it came to Tom though, like she was lying to him. He knew that Harry was a boy that was staying with her family that she wanted him to be her boyfriend, but she tried to make it seem like he was just her older brothers' friend. He'd asked all sorts of questions to help her come up with their earlier plan but she hadn't told him who Harry was or why he was so important.

She didn't want Tom to think of her as some star-struck fan, because she certainly wasn't. Harry was staying with her family; that had to _mean_ something. She guessed that she'd have to tell him everything sooner or later but how could someone understand about the books, Heroes, Damsels, and True Love like that when they'd never heard of Harry Potter, You-Know-Who, or knew what it meant to be the Boy-Who-Lived?

Stowing Tom in one of her a hide-a-book compartments, the young red headed girl – no, red-haired _young woman_ – put her hair back in a ponytail and returned to the mirror to see how she looked. With a determined 'game face,' ripped hand-me-down jeans, and well-worn red-and-gold Gryffindor Quidditch jersey with 'Weasley' across the back that her brother Charlie had let her have Ginevra Weasley was nothing like the pathetic little girl that Ginny Weasley was before. She had always hated her first name, that was true, but how better to reinvent yourself than to look, act, and call yourself something completely different?

Slowly opening her door sporty-girl Ginevra Weasley, Quidditch witch extraordinaire, prowled her way through the Burrow while on the alert for other threats. Her mother had to be around somewhere and there was no telling where Harry's strange elf was so she made her way down the stairs quietly, avoiding the parts that would cause them to creak. She was going to do what she should've done yesterday.

That whole thing with Harry was also something that was going to change, she had decided. Ginny might have moped around pining for him but Ginevra was better than that, she didn't care whether he liked her or not, so her new plan was actually rather clever. Ginevra would go out and put herself right in front of him, but completely ignore him; she'd be right under his nose and then quickly slip away. She'd show how feisty, sporty, and un-Hermione-like she was so that when Harry got tired of the bookish girl and wanted something different – and he _would_ – then she'd be right there, but just out of reach. He was going to have to chase her now, and he'd have to be lucky if she let him catch her.

As she reached the last landing and the living room came into sight her eyes leapt to her mother who was asleep in a chair. So used to getting up early to fix the left over mess from the day before she must've done it again without thinking, only with Harry's elf here there was nothing to do to keep her awake and she must've fallen to sleep again. Sooner or later her mother would explode and throw the elf out of the house …or start feeding it with a bottle and tell him to stay forever.

Her mother always chided her when she 'dressed like a boy' or 'acted like a boy' and Ginny-vra thought that if she was going to get in trouble for something then it was better to get in trouble after she'd done it rather than before she ever started. Carefully she made her way through the kitchen and was almost to the door when a _tap-tap-tap!_ cut through the silence. Her mother snorted and mumbled in her sleep as Ginny bolted to the window to take the morning paper and shoo away the owl before it woke her fully.

Her mother smacked her lips and snuggled deeper into the chair. Setting the paper down on the table in relief, Ginny took a breath as her heart beat a mile a minute. Whoever thought that slipping out of a house where virtually everyone slept in late would be such a hassle? It made her wonder if any of her brothers' stories of sneaking out of Gryffindor tower were true at all.

Eyes darting one last time to make sure her mother was still asleep, Ginny started inching her way towards the door again… only to whip her head back to the headline of the _Daily Prophet_. She stared at it for a while. It didn't make any sense, it was unbelievable, the most ridiculous headline that's ever been written. It couldn't possibly be real, but if it wasn't then how could they possibly print it?

_'__Dumbledore Created Boy-Who-Lived,_' the banner headline proclaimed at the top of the page._ 'Reclusive Romance Writer Revealed,_' it continued above a bashfully blushing the picture of the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

"But tha-… That's impossible!" Ginevra cried out loud.

"Wha-what's impossible, dear?" her mother mumbled. "And what on Earth are you wearing?" she said even louder.

.o0O0o.

"Impossible," Rufus Scrimgeour said with a shake of his straw-like mane of hair. Even put off as he was by how this day may play out, his pride seemed to force him to make a stand somewhere. Moody wished he hadn't decided to stand on him though.

"It's not impossible, it happens all the time," Alastor said as his magical eye darted from the insubordinate superior to his superior's superior beside him and back to the rest of the aurors behind them as they gathered in the Ministry's Atrium. Nymphadora "Pinky" Tonks was making no effort to hide the fact that she was trying to listen despite all the noise around them.

"For other people, yes," square-jawed Amelia Bones agreed. "But not for you."

"How am I not a people?" he asked before quickly correcting himself. "A person."

Alastor hoped that Saul's battiness wasn't catching but he had to be more than a little mad already to let the man drag him to do this. It made sense though and provided everything he'd been looking for. What better way to maintain secrecy and security while having access to everything the Ministry could provide than to bury yourself into a well-funded department that no one knew what it did?

"For the last two years we've heard nothing out of you but 'retirement,'" Scrimgeour said looking at him strangely. "And now you want a transfer just when we need you the most."

"I'm not going to leave you with your robes around your ears," Moody said as they stopped by the golden fountain of sycophantic followers. "But you've known that I've had one foot in the floo and you've done nothing to replace me or force me out – which is exactly what you should have done," he pointed an accusing finger at Scrimgeour.

"It would have been disrespectful in light of your long service," Amelia said with a guilty look on her face that made her seem younger than her short-cropped gray hair indicated.

"There's nothing wrong with giving an old man a hard shove and quick kick in the pants if that's what's good for him," he told her. _'At least they had sense enough to have the conversation though,_' Alastor thought.

"I would have thought you'd want to quietly slip away and enjoy your retirement," Rufus said. "Why transfer instead?"

"What'd you expect tropical isles, sun tans, and grass skirts?" he asked dryly with a spin of his eye. "Do I look like someone who'd enjoy a quiet retirement? Odds are you'd have to send someone around two or three times a week just to make sure I didn't go insane."

"How could they tell the difference?" Amelia asked with a look.

"Why the Department of Mysteries?" Scrimgeour asked.

"If I told you that I'd have to Obliviate you," Alastor replied promptly, drawing a chuckle from their department head. "Why not?" he asked.

"Besides the fact you hate it?" Bones said with a smile that said she was playing with him.

"The Unspeakables are creepier than the whole Headless Hunt, true, but you can't say I won't fit in," he replied with a wave. "When a man gets older he remembers how young and stupid he used to be and starts asking deeper questions about things he never thought of before. Maybe I'll find some answers there."

The instant silence that followed told him what their answer would be. If it hadn't been for bumping into Lichfield again and seeing his 'woe is me' act that he liked to hide behind Moody never would have thought of this at all. Playing the role of a fading hero passing the baton to a new generation was one thing, but he had to wonder how people could get so blinded by sentimentality that they couldn't hear what he was telling them when he was saying it to their face.

Amelia looked to Scrimgeour for his thoughts and after a moment the man gave a resigned dismissive gesture.

"Provided we still have a country by the end of the day and the goblins don't kill us all," the Head of the Auror Office said grudgingly. "I'll sign off on a transfer."

"Good. Now if you two would be so kind, try not to start a war today," Amelia said as she put on her monocle and gave them both a stern look before walking away.

"Ever get the feeling that she sees us as overlarge children?" Alastor grumbled as the woman in question weaved her way through the mass of aurors and the two men edged their way further from everyone to get more privacy.

"Your lack of a ring is showing," Scrimgeour said with a rare smile as he raised his left hand and fingered his own wedding band. "Find a woman that doesn't act like that and you've found one that's never had to put up with one of us."

Alastor had to give the man that, most men were thicker than trolls more often than not.

"You dislike the taste of politics more than I do," the other man went on to say after he flicked his wand to provide additional privacy. "But if you'd rather have the easier assignment to end your tenure on you can take charge of Ministry security today. The worst that'll happen is grand standing; no one's going to attack us here – if they do at all."

"I'll take the Alley," he replied with a shake of his head. If there was going to be any problems then the odds were the Alley would be the center of it; it's where the goblins lived after all. "Let Kingsley have the Ministry. He's reassuring enough to keep those Wizengamot types settled if the worst should happen."

"I was going to have him around Hogsmeade and Hogwarts," Scrimgeour said with a curious look on his face. "He's a local; well-known and well liked enough to calm the populace should the I.C.W. make an appearance and try to arrest a British citizen on our own soil."

"No, you should be the one to do it," Moody said, his magical eye darting around to check everything in the room. There were far too many wands in one place for him to feel secure about it. "If those bureaucratic types show up they won't like being sent scurrying away by someone without a fancy title; Senior Auror won't cut it with them. You go. It'll do you good to get back into the field; Kingsley can handle the Ministry. I'd get with Bones to make sure she keeps him away from the detainee though, both before and after he's in custody."

"You doubt his loyalty?" Scrimgeour asked shooting a look between him and Shacklebolt who was standing on the far side of the room in conversation with several of the younger aurors.

"Loyalty to who – or what?" Alastor asked nebulously. "Take a look at the kids we call aurors," he said with a gesture to the milling crowd, both eyes skimming around from face to face.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" Rufus asked, looking at the officers he helmed.

"How many of them served during the war?" he asked. "A handful, at most? They may have experienced it as students trading rumors between classes or children quaking in their beds at night but peace is seductive, it makes you think that the past is over and done and all the bad times will never come again. Fighters like you and I know better," Alastor said, turning his real eye to look Scrimgeour in his. "What drove us to war last time is still very much alive. How do you kill an idea like Blood Purity or force people to admit that their problems aren't somebody else's fault? People won't see what they don't want to see."

"What's that have to do with Kingsley?" Scrimgeour asked, looking at them all with growing scrutiny. "He's never seemed a Purist to me."

"It's a different kind of purity he prizes; purity of spirit – as if there is such a thing," Alastor explained. "He came in as a recruit during the war, remember? During that big propaganda push for the 'pure and chosen few,' with the Ministry doing everything it could to puff up Dumbledore as the one who'd save the country."

"The _Prophet_ named him 'the Leader of the Light,'" Rufus nodded. "You see what they said about him today? I honestly don't know what to believe."

"And neither would anyone else," Alastor said conspiratorially. "If the man said that he was being framed and it was up to them to set him free so he can set things right–"

"–I don't like where this is going," Scrimgeour interrupted. Moody stared at him silently to press his point better than words ever could. "I don't want to see it," the man went on to say, "but I do, even in myself."

"Then you'd best hope that even if the goblins do have some trick up their sleeves that they don't want a war any more than we do," Alastor said finally. "Because we are not prepared for it. These kids were trained to maintain the peace – to rap people on the knuckles and send them on their way – not to fight to make that peace possible. When we were facing Death Eaters, would you have let the entire Auror Corps gather in one place, let alone wander around?"

Rufus blanched at that and darted a look at the aurors again. With a sigh and slumped shoulders Moody saw the last of the man's pride leave him. If the I.C.W., the goblins, or the Death Eaters had wanted to attack the Ministry then having the already undisciplined defenders grouped up and at their ease was doing most of the attackers' work for them. They might as well open the doors and invite them in.

"You always were a rough teacher. You can't leave," Scrimgeour said finally. "There's too much work to do."

"Then you're going to have to get off your ass and do it then," he replied with a smile that he knew pulled his scarred face in odd ways. "After publically agreeing to the transfer you can't go to Bones and tell her why I'm indispensable – you'd look incompetent. So like it or not I'm already out the door. If you don't like what you see here, change it. Break them down and reshape them into what you need – weapons."

Having already made his decision to go, Alastor was surprised at how freeing it felt. He'd never thought about actually telling Rufus what he'd thought about the direction the Auror Office had taken under his watch, but if you couldn't tell the truth when you were leaving then when could you say it?

"And you think the Wizengamot will just sit by as I turn the Auror Corps into an army?" the other man asked.

"After Fudge conjures up the bogeymen of goblin wars and foreign invasions?" he asked with a look. "I think they'll let you do whatever you want as long as it makes them feel safe and strong; they may just insist on it."

"You're right, and I wouldn't even know where to begin doing that," Rufus said honestly.

"Kingsley could help, but not like he is now," he said critically. "Don't rush to replace me when I leave, let him see how all this plays out without larger duties to get in the way. Once we get a better picture of what's going on with his hero then you can see where his head's at, where his loyalty lies, and see if he's the man who can help reform the Auror Office into a force that can take on any threat it faces."

"Calisthenics, drills, and classes will only take them so far," Rufus observed, finally coming to the conclusion Alastor had tried to beat into him years ago.

"I've got some ideas," Alastor said, scanning the group as if they were all fresh recruits again.

_'__Simulated investigations, group missions with surprise enemy attacks, real-world raid training where they don't know what they're facing, mock battles against superior foes, having to face a traitor in their midst,_' he thought in rapid-fire succession as a grin formed on his face. _'It'd be really fun to see how these puffed-up popinjays handle those._'

He practically felt giddy, before the whole thing turned sour on him. It really would've been fun to be a part of that but if he wanted Saul's help he would have to transfer departments so the man could have some company and yammer his ear off. And on top of that, now that Bones knew of his decision to leave he had to stick to it just like Scrimgeour did.

_'__Damn Rufus for picking today to finally grow up,_' Alastor cursed to himself.

"Once I get settled I'll find a way to slip you my ideas," he said casually before looking back to Rufus when he noticed the man looking at him. "An Unspeakable's work may be Unspeakable but that doesn't mean they can't talk about their old jobs. The others probably wouldn't take too kindly to the new guy ruining their reputation though, so keep my name out of it."

"Your input will be appreciated," Rufus nodded before turning back to the Corps. "Now to divvy up what we have," the head of the Auror Office said as he started rattling off the mission again in a by-the-book fashion. "Securing this island they're after – presuming it's not some feint – should be their primary objective. You have any idea who the Ministry's sending there?"

Alastor shook his head as his magical eye caught someone appear on the far side of the Atrium with a house-elf. Leave it to Lichfield to bypass a floo lockout for Gringotts employees.

"Whoever it is," he said, "they'd better be good."

.o0O0o.

Lester smiled and patted Mipsy's head before she disappeared again. He'd originally sent the elf to that bushy-haired girl as a bit of a joke but it seems as though it's actually working out. Mipsy seemed to like her and the girl treats her well, so it was all well and good as far as he was concerned.

As he hefted his briefcase to make his way through the milling mass of mindless Ministry morons Lester was reminded that not all females were that easy to please. The pink-haired girl from before, Trip, or whatever her name was, did not look happy to see him.

"I should be really pissed off at you," she said as she blocked his path.

"That's a common thing nowadays," he replied as he stepped aside to pass her by.

She stepped again to stay in front of him.

"Don't make me spank you in front of your friends," Lester said with a wry look. "If you want to bitch at me, start walking," he gave her a shooing wave towards the elevators. "You've got until the lifts, after that your babysitters will be after me for kidnapping."

Lester moved aside again and amazingly the girl fell in beside him.

"Out of curiosity," he asked with a quirky grin, "why are you pissed at me? I made you the main witness to something that'd tug the heartstrings of every mother in the country. You know how many people will want to talk to you?"

"I'm not interested in getting attention–"

"–Said the girl with pink hair," Lester interjected. "Ever think of going for bright blue polka dots? It might help you blend in."

"I spent my entire time at Hogwarts 'blending in,'" the pretty girl grumped. "Now that I'm out I'd like to make a name for myself on my own."

"So what's your problem with me?" he asked exasperatedly.

"I don't want that name to be Pinky!" she said tersely.

"Would you prefer Trips McGee?" he smiled.

"Why can't it be Tonks?"

"Bah," Lester said dismissively. "Too boring. Sounds like that thing non-magical automocars do."

The girl looked at him oddly for a moment.

"You mean honk?" she asked.

Lester stopped and looked at her.

"Tonks!" Lester honked out as he poked at her like he was pressing a button. "Tonks-Tonks-Tonks! You're in my way. Tonks!"

"You should be in one of those special rooms at Saint Mungo's," Tonks said finally.

"What makes you think I didn't escape?" he asked, pulling an _'I'm crazy_' look at her. "Anyway, you can't blame me for Pinky. Moody's the only one I've talked to in your office in over a decade and he's not one to spread it around. Someone else must've come up with it too unless you told someone you shouldn't have."

A split second after he said that he knew that was exactly what had happened.

"Oh no," Lester said, shaking his poking finger at her. "Don't you go projecting your issues on me; I've got enough of my own."

A sharp _thunk!_ behind them drew their attention to the gnarled and limping other half of that odd auror team.

"I should've known that you'd find your way in here," Alastor said, that creepy blue eye of his zipping around inside his skull.

"Was it supposed to be hard?" he asked curiously.

"For your bosses at least," the old auror replied.

Lester didn't particularly like the sound of that. It definitely made him think that the Ministry was up to something, or at least was being paranoid about Gringotts being up to something. But while it was understandable that both parties were taking precautions – though the rumors that had started circulating around the office last night were patently ridiculous – the whole thing set up a situation where one wrong move might mean a world of hurt for everyone involved. Not to mention that it put every human that worked for Gringotts in a delicate position: who did they side with, their employer or their race?

Though he sympathized with everyone that'd be put in the awkward situation because of divided loyalties, at least with the kid back in the picture the third divided loyalty gave him a plausible way out. _'Nothing to see here,_' he thought to himself with a benign grin._ 'I'm just the Potter bailiff going about my official business. I'm not involved and will be on my way._' He had to like that kid, even if he was a monstrous pain in the ass and caused too much trouble.

"So what are you doing here?" the one-eyed auror asked.

"Pestering Pinky, bothering bureaucrats, and sowing the seeds of sedition," he replied without missing a beat. "You know, typical litigator stuff," Lester smiled.

"My name – is not – Pinky!" the pink-haired girl said testily with a face that was more pink than flesh-toned.

"Quiet, Pinky, and run off to Rufus," Mad-Eye said gruffly with a dismissive wave. "You'll be with him today so you'd best behave."

The girl's angry eyes looked ready to fire curses out of them. Lester gave her a smile with perhaps a bit of comedic victory thrown in.

"Gah!" the girl cried before storming away from them like one of those great mountain cats that was ready to pounce on something as he chuckled at her retreating back.

"I was kind of curious to see which of us she'd attack first," Lester said with a glance to Alastor. "I didn't think you liked nicknames."

"Not when they're about me," Mad-Eye replied. "They get stuck in your head though."

A quip about Moody's magical eye came popped into his mind and he was just about to let it loose when that same bright blue eye flipped over to stare at him. _'Yeah, that probably wouldn't be funny at all,_' Lester thought to himself as he quietly discarded the remark.

"Anything else to talk about?" he asked wondering if the old auror was using the 'stuck in your head' comment to refer to the memory he had provided him the other day.

"Nope," Alastor said before quickly turning away. "Jameson!" the man cried as he walked, "You're with me today."

Lester thought about what just happened as the lift carried him away from the Atrium. Alastor wasn't one to let a tip like the one he'd given him slip by without being acted upon, and even if he was only a monstrous idiot would ignore evidence of You-Know-Who still being alive. That comment about making things difficult for his bosses had to refer to Gringotts, which would imply that all the aurors were for something to do with them and not the Death Eaters that had run to ground a decade ago.

That was a pity, actually. With the uproar at the bank and the disruption that Flamel and the I.C.W. were sure to cause as a cover, finally rooting the remaining Death Eaters out would've had their whole society take several huge strides forward in a single day. It would've been a singularly spectacular feat in a world that took a perverse amount of pride in never taking the slightest step forward at all. Still, Alastor would have done something with that memory in mind so if the man didn't want to talk about it then the odds were that his plan was to handle it in secret.

_'__Let him take it,_' Lester thought. _'The kid's already had two too many run-ins with You-Know-Who anyway. There's no reason for him to be involved at all._'

The lift doors opened on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the sprawling leviathan that had its tendrils spread wide and buried deep into every aspect of a magical person's life. Some said the Wizengamot was the Soul of the Ministry, the collective will of the people, and though Barchoke had a more colorful part of the body to compare it to, in reality it was the mouth: an overlarge echo chamber that caused more trouble than it knew how to deal with. The D.M.L.E. was the brain – overloaded and half-mad from the constant strain of keeping things somewhat under control that Lester doubted that anyone even knew what all it did.

With the Ministry being in the center of London and untold millions of muggles just on the other side of the Leaky Cauldron, he had sometimes wondered what it was like to live life surrounded by so many people. Barchoke said it was reserved only for the worst sort, and Charlus had always hated the intrusiveness of the Department itself, but to Lester the sheer size of its expanse of cubicles and wandering corridors was enough to shrink everyone into insignificance in the likes of which only those large non-magical buildings could match. It had to be the auror part in him; no one that worked here could know everyone else and when you added visitors into the mix it afforded you as close to anonymity that one could get.

_'__Like a rat scurrying through an alley; all the better to sneak about and get done what you wanted done without anyone knowing what you were up to,_' Lester thought to himself.

Turning away from the elevators and the way to the Auror Office, Lester tried to adopt the same tired look he saw on the Ministry employees so that he could catch snippets of their conversation. Surely they would know what was going on with the aurors downstairs, though the first thing he heard didn't give him much hope.

"I didn't even know there was an English Wizarding Council let alone a Scottish one," one harried looking fellow said to his mate as they hurried down the hallway. "Where are we even supposed to start looking for their archives?"

"Search me," his friend said, as if that suggestion would help. "I only remember seven words from Binns's class and they're: _'Blah blah, giant war, snore, goblin rebellion,_' and I don't think any of those are going to help."

Lester shook his head and moved into the field of cubicles.

"Sherry!" one homely woman said brandishing a newspaper as she peered over the divider separating her work space from her friend's. "Did you see this?"

"What, with Dumbledore as Ida Beeman?" her unseen friend responded disbelievingly. "You can't seriously be taking anything Rita Skeeter says as the whole truth, can you?"

"Well it certainly makes sense the way they explain it, and she was certainly right about that Lockhart," the first woman said defensively. "I was there. The man was trussed up like a child and couldn't answer a single question I had."

Lester quickly sped away and took the first turning before the woman recognized him; at least there was someone who was taking the story about Dumbledore at face value. Rather than pressing his luck any further he went straight to where he was supposed to go and walked up to a large counter-like desk off to one side in front of a painting of a stately old wizard.

"Welcome to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Civil Suit Servicing Section," the young woman manning the desk said in a tone that was much too chipper not to be criminal this early in the morning. "The Dietrich Lichfield Law Library," the woman gestured to the closed door to her right, "–is closed today due to temporary security concerns. If you'd like–"

"No, that's fine," Lester said with a wave, feeling a bit more at ease. If the Ministry was closing public parts down for security then those aurors would be for protective measures rather than for anything offensive. "I'm not here for books, I'm here to file."

"By proxy or on your own behalf?" she asked.

"By bailiff proxy," Lichfield replied.

"In that case I'll need your credentials, sir."

Lester withdrew and presented the small well-worn leather case that held his Ministry-Approved Litigator's Accreditation and Bailiff's Identification and set his briefcase down on top of the counter. Rather than giving it a quick scan and continuing on with the day the girl seemed determined to do her job and actually verify everything. He tried to wait patiently as the woman went through an elaborate checking procedure only a goblin or professional bureaucrat could think up.

The bailiff paperwork was out of date; the girl would see that. Charlus had given it to him long ago and it had languished in a box since Gropegold had dismissed him, kicked him out of his own house, and he had had to find a new place to live. When he and Mipsy had started going through it last night he hadn't been sure why he had left the box packed when everything else had been set out but after a while it finally dawned on him. That small box had contained everything from his life after Constance had died and there really wasn't anything of importance there. It was the tiny coffin holding the moldering remains of the little bit of Lester Lichfield that had somehow survived having his heart ripped from his chest.

_'__How many times could a man die before he was finally buried?'_ Lester wondered.

His wife was when most of what had made him him had been scoured away and it was thanks to Charlus that he hadn't laid down in a grave right then and waited to join her. Knowing him and Dorea were going to go together, and knowing why, had softened their passing and James had stepped up to be responsible to the people on the Estate. Despite the wildness of his youth James had become a good man, and even with the war going on it was plain to see that there were good days ahead, so when all of that was ripped away…

_'__It was easier to forget Harry and occupy myself with other things rather than risk getting hurt again,_' Lester finished to himself ashamedly. It was a poor way to repay the kid's family for everything they'd done for him.

"I'm sorry, Mister – er-" the woman referred back to his identification, "Mister Lichfield, but I'm afraid your credentials are out-of-date," the desk worker said as she handed them back to him and the wizard in the painting behind her turned his head to look at him. "Is there someone you'd like us to get in contact with?" she asked as if he were an invalid wandering in off the street.

Lester spared a glance at the man in the painting behind her. With the man's large furry eyebrows and piercing eyes, Dietrich Lichfield stared down at him like a horned owl coming in for the kill – but his father had never been welcoming in the first place. He'd like nothing more than to stick his tongue out at the pretentious tyrant but if he did he'd probably end up with a one-way trip to Saint Mungo's like Pinky suggested.

"I know the registration's lapsed," Lester said gruffly as he opened his briefcase to withdraw the legal paperwork. "That's part of the complaint."

"Then you'll have to take it up with the relevant parties involved," the woman said patiently. "Proxy management is determined by the Estate in question, the Ministry only recognizes their selection; we can't override it."

"I'm well aware of that," he replied as the great tight-fisted Dietrich Lichfield turned his back on him; being a meager bailiff had never been in the man's plans for his son. "I'm also aware that under the Estate Act of 1348 that a former Bailiff to a deceased Lord may act as the current Bailiff on the Heir's behalf against an Appointed Guardian in any such matters that applies to the well-being of the current underage Heir."

The young woman blinked at him, seemingly at a loss. The goblin fastidiousness when it came to wizarding legal history that he had picked up over the years might be a bit overwhelming at times but it did come in handy. Lester thought he'd help the woman recover her professional demeanor; she was there to help the uneducated form a coherent basic case, not to know every bit of legal minutia.

"Of course you're right in the Chief Constable would have to sign off on this," he said patiently. "But it still provides the legal grounds for temporary recognition of the status and provisionally allows the complaint to be filed until such time that the matter can be seen to by your Head of Department, since it would be her duty nowadays and she'd likely have a lot to do."

"Right," the woman said finally. "I don't think we have a form for that."

"I took the liberty of having one drawn up," Lester said passing over the bundle of legal paperwork that had been tied neatly together; the first page had the make-shift form in question. "The top part would be the temporary recognition that you'd sign," he explained as the woman's eyes popped at seeing the names involved. "The bottom part would need her signature for the final approval."

"Yes, this looks like it'll do," she said judiciously before handing him a clean sheet of parchment. "You'll also need to provide contact information for you and the Heir so that she can schedule a meeting at her earliest convenience," the woman said with the courteous but triumphant smile all desk workers got when they extracted their revenge for being made to feel like a fool. "I'm sure that Madam Bones would want to check with Mister Potter himself to make sure that this is in fact in his best interests."

_'__Be they human or goblin,_' he thought as he scratched out the relevant information. _'Never piss off a clerk; they'll always get you in the end._' And as much as he'd prefer to keep the kid under wraps as everything came out into the open Lester supposed meeting Bones in private wouldn't be the end of the world – and if he could talk the kid around into pursuing the issue of Sirius Black… He paused and glanced up at the cold shoulder that his portrait patriarch was still giving him.

An adherent of the abhorrent practice of striving for a type of familial immortality by acquiring power and wealth and beating your child into becoming a portrait-perfect copy of yourself, darling daddy Dietrich had been the personification of Pureblood Privilege and a bulwark against social change that wielded the law as a cudgel. If his mother hadn't died when he was five Lester had no doubt that he probably would have found himself in an arranged and magically binding marriage contract before he had hit Hogwarts. As bad as losing her had been, her death had also been a release. Any contract had to be agreed to and sealed with the blood of both parents in order to be binding on the child, so without that certainty it had taken much longer to arrange a match for him, and by then he had started to think for himself.

Sirius Black hadn't been the first runaway that the Potter Family had taken in, nor was he the first boy to have been raised like family. Charlus's father, Fleamont, had helped to put an end to most of the secretive abuse by causing it all to go public when he gave anyone who wanted it safe haven at his distant manor home when things had gotten dark during their first year at school. It wasn't until years later that he realized how much trouble the man had taken upon himself when the Wizengamot had refused to enact the basic child protections that would have – looking back now – saved Harry from so much hardship. He still didn't know if all of that turmoil had started because of what he'd said to Charlus about his own family or not, but it wouldn't have surprised him either way.

At the time it had all been a lark and he could still remember the little tent city that had cropped up around the house; they called it 'Potterstown' and named Charlus their Mayor since he lived in the big house. Fleamont had been fine with the squabble of kids running their own lives as long as they did their homework, stayed in their own beds at night, and kept away from the hill and the old tree nearby. It had been a joyous Christmas break with much of the time spent laughingly watching the Ministry workers bounce off the wards as they tried to break through while parents tried to negotiate with their children to get them to come home. Only the ones that were in actual need had stayed more than a few days and by New Years he had managed to convince almost every parent to agree to let their children live out their own lives as they chose, and even sign a contract stipulating such. Only he had been left behind.

Two things happened then: Fleamont had invited him to use the spare bedroom, and his father never acknowledged him again. He even went so far as to bequeath everything he had to the Ministry to establish this law library rather than to have his rebellious son see a knut of it. It had been a small price to pay for freedom, in his opinion, so no matter how it had turned out his life had been his own. Lester did wish he could remember where the house was though – or even the name – no doubt the kid would enjoy seeing the place.

_'__Not every castaway is as grateful as you, you sentimental old fool,_' he said to himself. There was no reason that Sirius Black would have harbored the same kind of affection for the Family that he had. History didn't repeat like that generation after generation and it was stupid to have expected him to react the same way just because he had gone through something vaguely similar.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" the woman asked as she accepted the parchment from him.

"Yes," Lester replied as he pushed those thoughts aside and withdrew another form from his briefcase. "I need to file this petition for an injunction against the extradition of Albus Dumbledore."

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** To the anonymous Guest reviewer who picked out the rare instances of missing, misplaced, or misselected words as they made their way through the story: Thanks. While some might think it peculiarly punctilious to pursue perfect punctuation and particular phraseology I find such nit-picking helpful. And to the other Guest review: I go by the books whenever possible, not the movies; so no, Animagi were not covered in Harry's first Transfiguration lesson. McGonagall transformed her desk into a pig and back in order to make an impression on her class, she did not show them her Animagus form. Though it was shown in the first chapter of PS/SS, the ability itself was not mentioned in the story until PoA.

As always, thanks for reading.


	26. It's Not so Much Fun for the Pig

**AN:** I'll get back to the Burrow in Chapter 28, I promise. Like what I did at the beginning of the story, I'm focusing on one part right now so I can quickly tell what's happened somewhere else all in one go rather than having to jump back and forth by inserting scenes in their proper chronological spot when those events really have nothing to do with each other and that remoteness is part of the point.

.o0O0o.

Drawing up documents that stipulated who owned what was a relatively easy thing to do when it came right down to it. Getting all the parties involved to accept that document as a binding legal agreement about things unseen was a bit more troublesome, especially when one party wasn't quite sure who owned what in the first place and the other party didn't know about any of it but might have evidence to prove you wrong if you claimed too much. Plus, there was always the chance that the party signing rights away they may not have had in the first place could wise up to the possibility that they might want to claim them after all, and that always caused problems.

And when it came to getting done what Gringotts wanted done in terms of the Ministry, it had always been an exercise in futility. They were more likely to change things at the last minute or hand you a list of dictates that you simply had to abide by, at least when you heard things from the goblin side of it anyway. In truth, Lester didn't know if it was a sign of faith in his abilities or an act of desperation that had gotten them to drag him into this; probably a little of both since Barchoke was tangentially involved somehow.

He wished he could just sit down and talk to the grumbling little goblin so that they could be on the same page about everything. So many things had been thrown into the air in the last two days and the longer you worked on your own when you're supposed to be working in tandem the greater the chance was of messing everything up. That was why he'd been glad when they said that 'the Overseer' wanted to see him; little did he know they were talking about the Little Minister, Overseer Bankor, who added the new complication of looking for just the right person to talk to and even what to say, with only his word as guarantee that the deal was legitimate.

_'Then again,_' Lester thought as he checked the tiny globe in his pocket to make sure the bagpipers were still silently playing as the lift arrived at Level 4 and he made his way through the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. _'You can't really call a deal legitimate when it's arguably to swindle the government out of something that might rightfully be theirs._'

He may have done some questionable things in the past but this was by far the dodgiest. Maybe he was getting too old or the kid's words and Skeeter's memory had riled his more noble ideals but trying to slip this through so soon after going on about _quid pro quo_s left a bad taste in his mouth. It didn't help that he'd already been committed to doing this before that happened and at least he had the flimsy excuse that he was just trying to get goblins a fair shake at something before they got tromped on all over again.

_'And if there's one thing I've learned at Gringotts,_' Lester reminded himself, _'it's that the only boot heel they like living under is one of their own. The Ministry might think they could walk all over them forever but step on them one time too many and you'll hobble away with one less foot._'

He paused for a moment to wonder if that's what had happened to Alastor before shaking his head and continuing on.

_'A _quid pro quo_ is all about trading something for something else and that's not what's happening here,_' Lester reassured himself. _'I'm just talking to a partial-human about stamping a form._'

In the unlikely event that the right person was there he'd have to walk a very fine line between convincing them to do something they'd have every reason not to do, reassuring them that things won't be so bad if the Ministry didn't like what he did, and purposefully not bribing them with the one thing that would make things not bad for him if he did what they wanted while letting him know that it could be available to him nonetheless. Lester saw the door to the Goblin Liaison Office come into sight and felt his stomach plunge a good ten feet. He was going to throw up.

_'Nope. No, this is not going to work,_' Lester said to himself as he turned around and quickly walked back towards the lifts. _'They're just going to have to take their chances on their own._'

He stopped again before he got to a turn in the hallway. If he didn't do this Lester knew exactly what the response from Gringotts would be: if the goblins had to do everything on their own then so would he. So much of his case against Dumbledore depended on Gringotts going along with the accusation of Bank Fraud that virtually every bit of evidence he had would be completely discarded if they changed their mind.

The goblin system of justice allowed memories to be used against someone, the human one didn't, and it was only a proviso in a treaty that related to fraud cases that allowed evidence against an accused to be brought in to establish guilt in the human system that would not otherwise be allowed. That was why having Barchoke on board as a partner and the inquiry as a joint one had been so invaluable. With every bit of dirt that he's dug up on Dumbledore: with Flamel, the Sorcerer's Stone, the Dursleys, and even You-Know-Who, if he lost the support of Gringotts – or worse if they decided to side against him – then Financial Mismanagement by a Guardian would be the best he could do.

The only thing that could help them if he refused would be Barchoke, and it was debatable how much he actually could, or would in that case. With him pulled away, occupied with larger concerns, and surrounded by other goblins he would soon find himself in the position where he'd to have to decide whether his own personal vendetta against Dumbledore was enough of a reason to continue working against the bank's most immediate interests when it meant supporting a litigator who wouldn't do what the bank wanted while other options against Dumbledore might still be available. The other Overseers were sure to pressure him to pursue what was best for the bank and Barchoke would have to know that if he didn't, all of his new-found support would disappear and someone else would take his place.

_'And really, why wouldn't they side against us?'_ Lester asked himself as he turned back to look at the open door to the G.L.O. _'They change their mind and the kid loses, all the transactions stay as they are, the bank doesn't have to refund a knut, and I'm left scrambling just to heave Dumbledore aside so that he can't do anything else before the I.C.W. hauls him off to Nurmengard._'

He didn't know whether it was by accident or design but either way he didn't like it. He didn't like being manipulated, he didn't like being used, he didn't like having to doubt his friends – or friend, actually, since he really only had the one. Lester didn't like it, but he knew that he was going to do it.

And really, what was he getting all bent out of shape about? As long as he chose his words carefully then there shouldn't be a problem. If it worked, it worked and if it didn't, it didn't; and if it didn't then it was Gringott's problem to deal with because he'd done his part. People complained about greed and corruption being rife within the Ministry so why hadn't the goblins turned to bribing officials long ago? They could've had a dedicated staff for this and probably would've gotten a lot more of their goals accomplished in the last three hundred years if they had done that than they ever achieved by fighting them.

_'Right,_' Lester thought as he worked himself up to march towards the door again. _'And I'm not even doing any of that. All I'm doing is garnering one person's support for a certain interpretation of a treaty, that's all._'

That was certainly not illegal. It was actually far less than he'd seen Charlus do a number of times in the Atrium of this very building or in the lobby in front of the Wizengamot chamber for one law or another. There might even be a proper word for it but damned if he knew what it was. Merlin, he hated politics; he was not doing this again.

Lester peeked around the door frame and was rather surprised at what he found. With all the people that was needed to make the shambling monstrosity that was the Ministry of Magic run the Goblin Liaison Office was abnormally empty. The only person who was there was a tiny little man who looked to have fallen asleep behind the big desk that they probably wouldn't let him sit at normally. As far-fetched as the idea had been at the time, Overseer Bankor had pegged it perfectly: short stature, somewhat larger ears, longer nose, and more angular features – this had to be mister… Hob? Hobble? Hobber? Hobby?

_'Damn, I knew there was something I was forgetting,_' he berated himself.

.o0O0o.

Glimmers of silvery light joined the rays of the early morning sun that peeked under the door and reflected off the honey-colored wood floor and bathed everything in golden light from below. It was like the fingers of the Greater Good beckoning him to come out and play. Conditions had to be just right for it to happen – rainless days in Scotland being a notable event – but the sight had been something that Albus had grown to look forward to during his thirty-six years as Headmaster.

Tiny motes of dust buzzed about just inches above the floor like happy little insects as he closed his eyes and breathed deep the smell of old books and beeswax candles that always seemed more pungent after a good night's sleep. As he moved to sit up and slide his feet into his slippers he felt a stab of pain in his left knee; it must have rained during the night. Though it had always made him sleep well his joints didn't enjoy it in the morning, especially the knee that bore the scar from his duel with dear Gellert. The curse should have blasted his leg clean off – and yet it hadn't; Love had saved him that day, and indeed the world.

Putting on his half-moon spectacles and flicking his wand to bring light to the hexagonal bedchamber, the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world paused to see to the aches and pains that came with advanced age. Retrieving a blue fluted vial from his bedside table Albus carefully poured a good dollop of the clear viscous liquid it contained in one hand and replaced the container before rubbing it into his troublesome knee and felt the soothing relief take hold. The excess he applied to his fingers and wrists before wiping what was left off onto his right knee.

Standing spritely, the tall man twisted to the left and then right, bent his neck from side to side, and whirled his arms about and raised them over his head as if in a bizarre dance before he tried to fly. His back, neck, and shoulders had always been good compared to his brother's but at one hundred and eleven years old you could never be sure when things would go wrong. His dear friend, Nicholas, had said that the soothing solution would work as a general treatment for such things but as long as his own bodily aches didn't become too much of a bother as to demand immediate relief upon waking Albus had no plans on taking it orally; not least because the man had said it would result in watery bowels.

It wasn't a perfect solution to aging but it worked, and as Nicholas had pointed out: even the Elixir had its drawbacks. In his youth Albus had fallen victim to the old – and now he knew discredited – idea that magic itself kept the magical people of the world young and healthy. After two years of correspondence it had been incredibly embarrassing to be corrected on that when he had first met Nicholas, who had been something of a hero of his at the time. He didn't know it until years later but it was then that the ancient wizard had decided that they would be fast friends.

It also came as a comfort that his hadn't been the most outlandish idea to ever make it into Flamel's home. The last person to have gained an audience with him had done so not to pursue research but to prove that Nicholas was a fraud and merely the latest in a long line of Nicholas Flamels to hold the name and pass the "Secrets" on to the next generation. What those secrets were and to what ultimate purpose even the man himself didn't seem to know, but seemed intent that it proved something nefarious, according to Nicholas.

Thinking of Nicholas, Albus couldn't help but feel a sense of loss. Knowing that he and Perenelle might see half a million or even a million sunrises and sunsets together had given him hope that with enough time the rift between him and Gellert might mend itself so that they could go forward in friendship and love once again. Sadly that was not to be, at least not yet; the reports he's had of the man's rehabilitation in Nurmengard though spoke volumes on how even the darkest heart had a bit of Light left in it.

As he looked through his wardrobe at the handful of his favorite outfits that he hadn't sold off and drew out a flowing purple robe with stylized stars and moons with its matching high heeled and delicately buckled boots, Albus couldn't help but lament the passing of his extensive wardrobe. He hadn't bought a new outfit in almost a decade, worn the one he had out half a hundred times before, and the others many more times than that but there was very little else he could do; he was the headmaster of Hogwarts and it was his duty to do his part.

The appearance of poverty didn't help the image people had of him that had helped bind the nation together through troublesome times but as long as no one looked too closely there were still things that could be done to maintain it. It was a heavy burden to bear but he did what he must. With a series of wand waves, twists, and flicks the purple became sky blue, moons became brooms, and stars became black Bludgers and gold-and-silver Snitches. Though the cut of the robes stayed the same, the constellation of features was one that Albus didn't recall using before and would certainly make the casual observer think it was new entirely. It was just the thing to breathe a bit of life into a stuffy Wizengamot meeting, and who could dislike it? It's Quidditch.

After he dressed and sat at his dressing table, Albus paused as he groomed his silvery hair and beard to spare a thought as to why he had picked that particular pattern for today. While the game was dangerous and might make no sense as far as points scoring goes, it wasn't as if he liked the sport overmuch. Indeed, if there was a quality of the game he particularly liked it was how it so animated the public. Even those who were not raised a part of the wizarding world, like Harry, took to it quickly.

_'Ah,_' the kindly old wizard thought with a rueful shake of his head._ 'Things always come back to him._'

And, when Albus thought of them, how could they not? Harry wasn't as smart as he was, wasn't as studious, wasn't as talented or insightful but it was as if the quintessence of what made Albus Dumbledore 'Albus Dumbledore' was alive within him. Out of the hardship and trouble that poor misguided Tom had wrought upon the world, a child had been born to end it all; a promised child that – astonishingly – had none of his failings but radiated the warmth and power of the Greater Good even in his most darkest of times.

Indeed it was the darkest of times that benefited a boy like Harry the most for it was only by repeatedly agitating and sublimating a substance that impurities could be removed, for as Ripley had said in 1591, _"Sublimations we make for three causes: The first cause is to make the body spiritual,_" which Harry most certainly was. Being in the less-than-tender care of his relatives had resulted in him being a remarkably virtuous child. _"The second is that the spirit may be corporeal and become fixed with it and consubstantial;_" the boy's mother had seen to that with her early death. _"The third cause is that from its filthy original it may be cleansed, and its saltiness sulphurious may be diminished in it, which is infectious._"

Harry was his Great Work, Albus knew that now, and though Nicholas had sworn never to tell another soul how to repeat the Work he had gleaned several hints over the years. The process to create the Stone that had driven so many people to distraction last year in fact started with a poison-tainted substance that was then purified, and so it was with Harry. This Third Cause was absolutely essential if Harry was to face Voldemort and defeat him once and for all, for only someone who was essentially Pure could hope to prevail against that which was essentially Vile and Sublimation was the only way to get there. He only wished he knew a way for the boy to live through the process to get there but assumed the Greater Good would make it known at some point.

And with that a thought occurred to him and Albus had to look into his mirror give himself a smile with a twinkle in the eye. The Greater Good always acted with Purpose, even when those who carry out its work do not know what that Purpose was. He had thought that the disruption in cordial relations between him and the boy was a byproduct of having been swayed by Love into not telling him why Voldemort had been so intent upon killing him when he was a child, but he had overlooked _why_ he had been swayed in the first place.

Rather than eventually bringing them closer together, as the Greater Good no doubt planned, overriding his Love for Harry at that moment could well have destroyed things entirely. The Greater Good had used his Love to hold him back from revealing the details too soon so that this continued Sublimation could occur. Had it not, the added weight of such knowledge might have the 'typical youthful grab at independence' that the boy was now going through make him decide to run from his destiny and throw the world into a chaos of unpredictability.

_'The Greater Good truly took everything into account,_' Albus thought to himself, practicing his calm, all-knowing gaze in the mirror before changing to his penetrating 'I'm looking into your soul and seeing all the secrets you wish to hide' look. That one always had a person with a guilty conscience squirming and was an ever so much more fair thing to do than trying to invade someone's mind.

Even if he didn't know precisely why things were unfolding around him as they were until a much later time, it never hurt to maintain the image of complete control and quiet command that the wizarding world looked to for surety and security. The people felt a need to believe in something, and it seemed their belief was in him. And while they looked to him for guidance and put themselves in his hands, Albus knew that they all rested in the hands of a much greater power that worked things out for the best, no matter what any of them did.

The Greater Good would decide when Harry was told about his destiny; to do otherwise would be folly. Harry was the one that would lead them into a future that was just the same as the past and the bright shining star of the Greater Good would guide his hand, so to reveal anything before he signaled a readiness to hear and a willingness to listen was simply out of the question. It would be a trying ordeal, keeping this from him and anyone else until the proper time, but Albus had never been one to shirk from his responsibility. With all the little burdens finally accounted for and his mind clear and focused, Albus knew that it was time to begin the day.

Even if the day had been one of the most melancholy of days the sight that greeted him as he stepped into his office would have been cause enough to smile. All his time spent in contemplation and getting ready must have made him later than he thought since the angle of the sun was such that the sparkly silvery instruments that filled the room reflected a little less of the morning's light, but since even that indirect light worked so well in conjunction with the glimmering collection of memory vials by his door the effect was not lost entirely. Indeed, from his raised vantage point of his little landing he could even see the school gates, glimpses of Hogsmeade Station, and the village itself, which was so rarely seen when he started his day with the sun.

_'And I can even see little figures moving about around the gates,_' Albus thought as he peered into the distance. _'The village children already busy at play no doubt. The little tots slipped away to get a better look at the school they all long to be a part of._'

He smiled at the thought; if he hadn't had so many pressing duties to attend to he'd be tempted to go down there, open the gates, and invite them in for a tour and lunch – and perhaps even let them see Fawkes – but sadly it was not to be.

"Ah, there you are Albus!" one of the portraits of former headmasters cried, a man whose face was so red that he looked like an overripe peach. "We thought you might stay abed all day and were debating amongst ourselves whether we should shout to wake you."

"Thank you for your concerns, but never fear," he said as he swept down the small flight of stairs. "What is the time?" he asked as he walked to take the seat behind his desk.

"Shortly after nine, according to the clock at St. Mungo's," a headmistress near him answered.

"Is it really?" Albus asked, patting his pockets to look for his watch before spotting it on the desk. It indeed was later than he'd thought; he'd have to forego eating in the Great Hall today. "Bobopsy?"

With a small _pop!_ a little elf appeared beside him dressed in an immaculate towel showing the Hogwarts crest and carrying a tray laden with precisely what he wanted: a quick and easy meal to eat, filling, but not too heavy. They really were marvelous creatures.

"Ah, thank you," he said taking the tray with a smile. Soon afterwards the pleasant little elf disappeared again; probably up to straighten his bedchamber. Unfortunately he spotted something amiss; it wasn't just Fawkes's perch that was vacant today, his _Daily Prophet_ was missing as well.

"Bobopsy?" Albus called again. "Was there no paper today?" he asked the elf once it returned.

"No, sirs," Bobopsy's bat-like ears drooped. "Not for the whole castles. Mister Professor-Head wants us to find some?" it asked eagerly.

"No, no, that's quite alright," Albus replied jovially. "It'll just give me something to look forward to when I return," he said with a pat on the elf's head.

As good as it would be to be caught up with all the gossip that passed for news when it came to making small talk later, there would probably be nothing more interesting there than more questions about Gilderoy's past and how the whole thing made him out to be a bad headmaster. As loathe as he was to lie, Albus knew he couldn't admit that he had known all along.

_'I was as shocked as anyone to see that in the paper the other day,_' he thought to himself. That statement was certainly true, and it gave the impression that he hadn't known at all so it would have to do.

"Now then," Albus said as he turned back to the assembled portraits. "Besides my tardiness, what matters were so remarkable to have gotten you in such a state, Atticus?" he asked as he began to munch on his late breakfast or incredibly early lunch.

"It was me," a headmaster named Everard replied. "I reported that I've never seen the Ministry so busy, even for a Wizengamot meeting," the portrait said. It was a common enough expression from him; he must have said it at least once a decade, to Albus's recollection.

"I told them that no matter what it was that there was no need to worry, there's plenty of time," the former headmistress said. "If you became overly late it'd only take you moments to transfigure your dressing gown and slippers into something suitable."

"Thank you, Dilys," Albus said blushing. He hadn't thought of going in his dressing gown before.

"Going in a dressing gown?" a rather rotund portraited man asked scornfully from a dim row above them. "It'd be a scandal. In my day we knew how to act like gentlemen!"

"You spent half your day drunk and wenching and the rest you can't remember," the sour old Slytherin, Phineas, said.

"Precisely!" the man agreed. "But we had money and servants; _that's_ what made us gentlemen."

"Friends!" Albus said resoundingly in an attempt to restore order. "If we could please stick to the issue at hand," he continued. "Everard, _why_ did the Ministry appear so agitated?"

The graying man in the portrait looked about a little nervously now that all the attention was focused on him again.

"Well, I don't really know," he admitted at last. "You know that I'm not so well liked anymore; they have me stuffed down on the lower levels near the Department of Mysteries, but news has a way of filtering down to me eventually. I heard about some sort of activity from my portrait here and went off to investigate. I managed to get as far as Level 2 before those prickly portraits physically threw me from their frames!"

"How rude," Albus commiserated.

"Which one was Level 2?" the stately Dame, Phyllida Spore asked from her spot on the right.

"That's the Wizengamot level," Armando Dippet replied in his thin voice.

"There seemed to be a lot of people there that shouldn't have been though," Everard pressed. "And this was over an hour ago. That's far too early for anything to do with the Wizengamot, isn't it?"

The portraits fell silent, catching Albus's contemplative demeanor as they looked to him for what he thought.

"This will be Lucius's doing, I suspect," he said finally with a shake of his head. "He has been far too quiet lately."

"Didn't a Malfoy marry one of the lesser branches of my–?" Phineas started to ask before the others shushed him into silence so that he could continue.

"Arthur Weasley has his Muggle Protection Act coming up for a vote today," Albus told the room at large. "By now Lucius would have whipped his supporters' votes and deduced that it will pass. This activity you noticed, Everard, is probably their furious last-minute scrounging for support to keep it from doing so."

"As well they should," Phineas interrupted. "And you should do everything you can to help them," he told Dumbledore. "Imagine; passing laws to protect muggles when we should be taking action against them. Push them all into the sea, I say, and be rid of them!"

"Well that's not very sporting," red-faced Atticus harrumphed.

"There's nothing wrong with muggles that a little education cannot cure," a witch from another corner replied.

"Well said, Heliotrope," Albus added. "I am sure Lucius's schemes will be in vain," he reassured them calmly. "If there was any problem with the votes, Dedalus is sure to contact me. Now, did anyone else learn anything last night?"

One row up from Dilys, Albus spotted an elderly wizard with a large white wig and an ear trumpet as he paused to remove the horn and dig in his ear before replacing it.

"Why do I hear bagpipes in the Goblin Liaison Office?" the man wondered aloud.

.o0O0o.

"Mister Hob?"

"I'm-not-asleep!" he cried, snapping his head up as he pushed away from the desk in shock. Overbalanced and arms pinwheeling, he grabbed hold of the chair and desk in fear of toppling over. Now wide awake and panting like a frightened squirrel, he looked up to whoever spoke.

_'Wow, who took the ugly stick to grandpa?'_ Hugh wondered. "Sorry, what?" he asked instead.

"You're Mr. Hob, I take it?" the old man asked again.

"Er – Hobson," he corrected the man. "Hugh Hobson."

"Lester Lichfield," the man said cordially.

"You'll have to forgive me," Hugh said, running a hand over his hair to make sure nothing was too flyaway. "I tend to work nights and for some reason the higher-ups told the entire office not to come in until after lunch, so guess who got stuck minding the store for a few extra hours without being asked?"

"Seems rather inconsiderate," the man said, before gesturing to a seat on the other side of the desk with his briefcase. "Do you mind if I…?"

"No, no, suit yourself," he said with a wave. "You must be new. We've got some pumpkin juice and water for tea over there if you want," Hugh said, gesturing to the left as the man took a seat. "It should still be pretty fresh. Either way you've got a few hours before anyone comes in to tell you what you should be working on."

Lester cleared his throat. "I think there's been a bit of a mistake," he said. "I'm not here to start work; I work for Gringotts."

"Oh!" Hugh exclaimed, a light bulb springing to life in his head. "Right, that makes a lot more sense."

An odd feeling made him look right to the dedicated floo connection between Gringotts and the Ministry. It still sat crackling away behind the small, spiky wrought iron grate they had conjured around it. Attempting anything other than a floo-call from the bank's side today should have been enough to put whoever did it in a world of hurt when they came out on the Ministry's side. _'Then how did he get…?'_

"How did you get in here?" he asked the man across from him curiously.

"I came through the door," the Gringotts man gestured behind him as he spared a glance at the grate.

"Right," Hugh said again, feeling more than a little stupid._ 'What was the point of closing off the floo if they let them in the front door? Typical wizarding stupidity._' He gestured to all the empty work spaces around him. "We're rather understaffed at the moment, but there might be something I can help you with."

"Yes, it's hardly the work environment that I expected such a noted 'idea guy' to have," the man said neutrally.

He was halfway to agreeing when his brain caught up with what exactly the man said.

"Very few people know that the night guy at the Goblin Liaison Office even exists," Hugh remarked with a suspicious look. "Let alone what he likes to refer to himself as, Mister um…"

"Lichfield," Lichfield replied. "And you're right; I've spent over a decade at Gringotts and have never once spared a thought as to who might be working here. But that was my oversight, and one that Overseer Bankor hadn't made as well."

"Wait – Bankor's an Overseer?" he asked, at a loss trying to reconcile the strangely pleasant goblin he'd seen and exchanged messages with with the image of the tyrannical Overseer they've always been described to be.

Old man Lichfield gave him a look of puzzled disbelief.

"What? I thought he was senior staff or some kind of lobbyist," Hugh explained. "He never told me what he was, people here never use the proper titles for anything, and unless the goblin in question's standing directly in front of them they're more likely to insult them. I mean, sure, we've met a couple of times and batted some ideas back and forth but–"

"He said that he's always found them to be constructive and innovative," Lichfield cut in, "so I doubt he was upset at the lack of a title."

That last bit made him feel better. Hugh didn't want to think that a word from Bankor could've cost him his job but there were always people in the Ministry who'd fire a brown-blooded part-goblin like him over nothing at all. If that happened he wouldn't know what he'd do, scrounge around for something in the muggle world perhaps since he was lucky enough to pass as one of them – a short one, but still. It was only the belief that a part-goblin would serve as a better go-between that had gotten him the job in the first place but being part one thing and part something else only meant that you were easily hated by both; the only exception so far had seemed to be Bankor himself, though no one else seemed to notice that.

"I try to be constructive," Hugh shrugged, "I don't know about 'innovative' though. Anything truly innovative always gets shot down – like the time I suggested we start using computers – I might as well have been talking to Fytherley Undercliff over there," he said gesturing to the portrait that had a Santa Claus looking wizard with an empty cornucopia stuck in his ear.

"What?" grandfatherly Fytherley Undercliff called as if being motioned to was an invitation to speak. "Why do I hear bagpipes?"

"Because you're nuts, go to sleep!" he shouted back as he pulled out his wand and shot sparks at the man. "I have no idea what he's talking about," Hugh confided to Lichfield as Undercliff walked out of the painting for parts unknown. "It was bad enough when he was just deaf; now it looks like he's crazy too – not that he wasn't before," he hastened to add. "Living in a hole in the ground might get you a last name, but it hardly makes you an expert on goblins – but what are you going to do? He's the only guy they've got that even resembles a 'goblin liaison' around here."

"Sorry," Lichfield chuckled. "You remind me of a friend of mine, which brings me to why I'm here."

The old man put his briefcase on the desk and opened it, taking out a small sheaf of papers and passing them over. Hugh's eyes went straight to several peculiarities straight away.

"The Wizarding Councils for the _Kingdoms_ of England and Scotland?" he asked incredulously. "Ownership of an island? Intellectual property rights? What am I even looking at?"

"Gringotts needs an official agreement on an interpretation of an international treaty from around the turn of the fourteen hundreds," the Lichfield man explained.

"That's way beyond anything I can do," Hugh replied. "It'd probably take a good six months to dig up anything on this and translate it into anything usable, let alone come up with a working legal interpretation from it. And even then it'd have to be signed off on by Mockridge and he'll only do it if it's what's best for the Ministry. I'm sorry," he told Lichfield, "but it looks like you're going to have to come back some other time."

"It was my impression that you were a manager here," the man from Gringotts said, as if that was actually supposed to mean anything.

"Well, yes, by technicality," Hugh said a bit bewilderedly. "Departmental guidelines say that a manager must be working in the office at all times, so they had to make me a manager even if all I'm doing is managing not to burn myself making tea or fall asleep during the night shift."

"And don't those guidelines also state that the manager on duty is authorized to make such an agreement if the head of the office and department head aren't available?" Lichfield pressed.

"After a lengthy confirmation process or if the world were ending, yes," he replied. "But that's not anything they'd let _me_ do."

"They'd rather let the world come to an end than have you stamp a form?" the man asked wryly.

Hugh pointed at his own face and said, "What part of part-goblin do you not understand? I'm lucky they let me reorganize the filing system into something that made sense – not to say they don't screw it up on a daily basis," he groused.

"I'm aware of how… discriminatory the Ministry can be with their employment practices," Lichfield said circuitously. "And that people can be very unpleasant to those of… differing heritages–"

"Are you trying to be politically correct?" Hobson asked looking at him oddly.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Lester said honestly.

"It's a type of social shaming that muggles have taken to," Hugh explained. "They take a word or phrase that singles out a dispossessed minority and replace it with something that sounds better, and then strongly imply that anyone who uses the old one is an intolerable bigot."

"You mean like 'person of non-magical heritage' instead of muggleborn," he said succinctly.

"Basically, yes," Hugh agreed. "And it makes something like 'mudblood' into unspeakably bad, social pariah-making bigotry rather than the good ol' fashion bigotry of yesteryear."

"There's certainly nothing wrong with that," Lichfield observed.

"Except that it's never going to work," Hugh replied tersely. "In my experience wizards don't have a conscience or sense of shame at all – not to say that goblins are any better, because they're not for people like me. Their word for us is Brownblood, which isn't too far from mudblood in the first place."

"Bankor thinks there's a chance to change all that," the Gringotts guy interjected.

"Bankor thinks that wizards and goblins can work together for the betterment of everyone if we can just sit down and explain things slowly and in small words so that everyone understands what we're trying to do," he said in a huff.

"And you don't believe that?" the old man asked.

"I'm part-goblin," Hugh said as he fiddled with the arm of his chair. "I have a vested interest in believing that."

"Then you'll be interested to hear that there's a great deal of change in the air at Gringotts at the moment and an openness to new ideas," Lichfield said with one of those half grins people got when they were teasing you with something just out of reach. "I personally witnessed Overseer Alkrat of Corporate Accounts suggest consolidating all of our record keeping into a single new department, an idea that Overseers Bankor and Barchoke seem to support."

"Is it true that he's the new–?"

"I can't say anything about that," the Gringotts man said quickly with his hand raised to ward him off and all but confirming that the wild rumor was true, or true enough to make no difference. "All I can say is that when Overseers start agreeing on things, those things tend to happen and that when I spoke to him Bankor said explicitly that he would be pushing for someone with constructive and innovative ideas and an extensive knowledge of filing systems," Lichfield said with a raised eyebrow and meaningful look.

Suddenly Hugh felt like he'd fallen a good twenty feet and if he hadn't been sitting down he was sure that his legs probably would've given out. A department? Heading an entire department? Heading an entire _Gringotts_ department? That was more responsibility than he's had in his entire life and in a culture that was all but alien to him. Bankor had told him bits and pieces of it in their letters, notes, and memorandum but going in like this was… Well, impossible! Suddenly something snapped into place.

"So you're saying that if I stamp this agreement that they–?"

"No, no! Absolutely not," Lichfield cut in. "I'm saying nothing of the kind. The job will either be created or not, and will be available to qualified persons independent of anything you do here and now," he said firmly.

"Right," Hugh said shrewdly, back on an even keel. "That sounds like a set up to me. I do what you want, leave the Ministry, they find out and are pissed at me for overstepping my bounds while no one at Gringotts seems to remember that I exist. That's a very clever scheme you thought up but it's not going to work."

"Gringotts doesn't want anything but to have a clear understanding between themselves and the Ministry," the old man said. "Failing that, who knows what might happen; the Ministry may well conclude that _you_ were at fault for failing to prevent a catastrophe when you had the chance."

"Wait – w-what?" Hugh asked, shocked again.

"Didn't I tell you?" Lichfield replied. "The treaty in question is the only thing that guarantees the economic stability of the entire wizarding world – and it's been broken. Why do you think we've shut our doors and have taken as much hard currency out of circulation as possible? What do you think Overseer Barchoke was doing here yesterday when he met with the Minister but to find a way to head this off?"

Aghast, Hugh felt his mouth opening and closing uncontrollably, completely unable to speak. Why was he always the last one to hear about everything?!

"It seems obvious to me that the Ministry has no interest in maintaining the peace," the grim-faced Gringotts representative growled. "Why else wouldn't they have this place working furiously to come up with an agreement like this?" Lichfield asked, thumping the sheaf of papers with a knobby finger. "Battle lines are being drawn, Mr. Hobson. I passed through the entire Auror Corps getting in here and by now they'll be taking positions for war, and rumors are that Gringotts has done the same."

Doom and gloom danced before his eyes as goblins and wizards fell. Red blood mingled with green to stain the cobblestones of Diagon Alley as buildings burned and the battle raged. Binns was a dreadful bore but the message of his class was clear: the history of their country was painted with blood. Goblin rebellions, while uncommon now, featured so prominently that everyone who's ever taken History of Magic knew that centuries of seething goblin resentment boiled just under the surface and that any moment it might break lose.

"I don't think I have to remind you how heated things can get between the two peoples when one of them feels that their rights have been trampled on and cast aside," Lichfield said which did nothing to dispel the horrible atmosphere. "If I go back there empty handed they'll have no reason not to fight it out. If that happens people will be looking for someone to blame."

He felt his stomach clench an instant before the blighted old man spelled out his worst fears.

"A part-goblin, here alone, who passed on the possibility to end things before they began? I can't see the Ministry wasting any time pinning everything on you."

Feverishly Hugh tried to think of some way out of this mess.

"They might even say that you wanted this to happen; a goblin sympathizer."

_'That's exactly what they'd say,_' he thought. _'I'd be lucky to see the inside of Azkaban before they kill me._'

"The only hope you'd have then would be if Gringotts took you in," Lichfield said.

"Why would they want a brownblood like me?" Hugh asked with more than a little panic. "They've never given us the time of day, let alone a job or protection."

"If Bankor thinks that you're worth investing in who am I to argue?" the old man asked with a wave that said it made no difference to him. "He wanted me to pass along a dagger of his to show his sincerity–"

"A dagger?" a stunned Hugh asked. "His own personal dagger, kept in his breast pocket?"

Lichfield grunted an affirmative. "That's the one, but I told him I'd never get it past security."

Hugh wasn't so sure of that, the Ministry measured threats in terms of wands, not knives, but if they already anticipated trouble it may have been true. When he had asked about their culture, particularly dealing with Overseers, one of the things Bankor had told him was that they rarely made promises – particularly when circumstances were dire. When they did though it was customary for the Overseer who was making the pledge to give that person the dagger they received when they obtained their rank.

At first he had thought that it was for collateral, but it was ever so much more than that. It was the Overseer's pledge that if they betrayed their trust and broke their word that they were free to bury that dagger in the Overseer's chest and no one would raise a hand to stop them. He didn't have the dagger, true, but just knowing that he had wanted to send it spoke volumes. Was Bankor – were _goblins_ – worth trusting after all?

"Instead he told me to pass along a message," Lichfield continued, drawing a thin strip of paper out of his pocket. "Apologies if I butcher this, but I know next to nothing when it comes to speaking goblin. Let's see, it was... 'Flute grab-a-tan flute,' or something very much like."

"Flute?" Hugh asked curiously as he took the strip from him. "How is that even–" Then it clicked.

_'Phludt grappiten phludt,_' the goblin transliterated into an English spelling read. _'Blood calls to blood._'

Bankor had always been uncomfortable saying anything about the violent part of goblin society. He liked to believe that they had become better, more civilized than that, but with the propensity to violence being the most publicized part of it details had become necessary. The caverns far below Gringotts teemed with goblins that had virtually no use to the ones that ran the bank. Barbaric and cruel, the only semblance of society they had was created through familial bonds.

A kind of clannishness kept violence from getting too far out of control when there were no guards in sight, but that didn't mean it didn't happen. He wouldn't go into details, and Hugh doubted that Bankor had ever been close enough to those goblins to ever learn it first hand, but he did say that clans had fought clans in the past when situations "Down Below" had gotten too dire, and when they did the rallying cry was always _'phludt grappiten phludt._'

Hugh balled the strip of paper up in his hand, almost afraid to read it again; he had to think this through. If he went by the letter of the Ministry's official policies then what Mr. Lichfield said is true; with him by himself and Mockridge too busy with the Wizengamot meeting – that may have already started for all he knew – to return to the office he ran then he could technically officiate the agreement. If he did though he'd be booted out of a job so fast he'd bounce across the Atrium, land in a floo station, and the only thing missing would be an announcer shouting _"GOOAAALLLL!"_

If he went by all the implied racial rules and prejudicial practices that they expected him to follow then he'd be right where he was, too petrified to do anything but guaranteed to be scapegoated if anything went wrong. He didn't want to be in this position but he was, and he couldn't help but feel like someone had done it intentionally. That was ridiculous though since this is precisely the situation he's been in his entire life.

Even as a child it had been hard not to sympathize with the goblin side of things. How could he not be when the muggle children he'd gone to school with kept calling him a deformed elf and asked if he'd escaped from the North Pole? He'd wanted to yell at them, to pummel the truth into their stupid pudgy faces, but his mother had said that if he did that _"They_" would never let him go to magic school and that the past was best left alone and forgotten.

Left alone and forgotten was still a step up from the Flitwick way of life. Though one of the uncles had done what he could to stop the public harassment, the professor implied that it was in part his fault for being "too goblin." The Flitwick Family philosophy for success and happiness was apparently to prance around emphasizing just how "near-human" they were by saying how great it was to be mostly-human, what a fantastic Ministry they had, and how much of an "honor" it was to even be included.

Hugh quickly found his chance at being incorporated into it cut short when his attitude was found to be lacking in that regard. The cowardly male head of the family didn't want to risk losing his "respectable" job in Hogsmeade or jeopardize having the choir he kept prattling on about being incorporated as an official school elective by having a "radical" in the family. He had to admit though that accusing him of being the nearsighted sycophant that had posed for the Fountain of Magical Brethren hadn't helped his case at all.

It was hard to read wizarding history and not identify with the goblin side, at least partially. If this were a sports match they would be his team. Wizards took and they took and they took, and when things blew up in their faces they blamed the goblins for being rebellious – when all they were doing was standing up for themselves! Was it so wrong to want to see the goblins win once in a while – or even just _once?_ If what Lichfield said was true, centuries of pent up resentment might be poised to boil over but here he was, a little part-goblin, in the position to make a difference and maybe give them a win this time.

_'They're giving me a jersey and telling me to get in the game,_' Hugh thought to himself as he curled his hand tighter around Bankor's call to arms.

Movement in his peripheral vision as the man across from him shifted reminded him that he'd spent the last few minutes staring down at the paperwork without reading a bit of it. Shifting from one parchment to the next Hugh saw that they were all the same; Gringott's magical watermark was already on all of them, apparently they wanted this in triplicate. There was the customary legalese at the beginning but essentially it stated that the goblins owned everything in, on, and constituting "Flamel's Compound" and all the rights thereto unless the Ministry can prove otherwise with documentation dating back to the time in question and verified by I.C.W. and goblin fraud experts.

"This places the burden of proof completely on the Ministry in any litigation," he observed.

"After six hundred years of occupying the island and paying for what went on there, Gringotts believes that it's the least they're entitled to," Lichfield explained.

"I'm surprised they're giving the Ministry any opening to contest this at all," Hugh said.

"They didn't want to," the old man replied. "Not allowing them that small chance though might have been enough to have the entire thing thrown out if the I.C.W. doesn't see the opportunity it presents them."

"What opportunity?" he asked. "The binding arbitration clause or the submission of documents to experts?"

"Both," Lichfield smiled as Hugh summoned the Goblin Liaison Office's officiating stamp. "If there was one sentiment I heard time and again yesterday was that it was high time that 'doddering old England' woke up and started acting like it's supposed to."

"Well then," he said hefting the heavy stamper. "Here's their wake-up call."

After three very satisfying _thump_s Hugh wondered if it would reflect too badly on him if he mixed up all the files before he left to find a new job.

.o0O0o.

Stepping from the Ministry's floo the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world, the caretaker of all that was Just and Good, was greeted from afar by the sight of some of the Pure and Chosen Few taking their ease around the glittering golden Fountain of Magical Brethren. Though in many ways he could call the Fountain a lie – the wizarding world had mistreated and abused their fellows for far too long for them to so eagerly look up to them with adoration at the moment – Albus preferred to look on it with hope. What the Fountain represented wasn't the world of today but the golden future that was to come thanks to the influences of the Greater Good.

Wizarding society was mercurial to say the least, which made interactions between it and the sulfurous goblins inherently volatile. And though the cause of such violence was the goblin's vitriolic nature more than anything the wizards had done, they nonetheless bore responsibility for them. As with the case with Harry, the continued agitation and sublimation of the race was needed in order to draw out their poisonous nature and transform them into something that could better help the whole. And though progress has been made – all one had to do was look at the professional and orderly bank tellers for evidence of this – the slowness of it must lie with the wizards themselves.

Had they only been tougher, more violent in their response to the goblins in the past then surely the survivors of that race would be better people today. While the origins of house-elf servitude might be lost to history the benefits they've gained from subjugation, toil, and slavery were beyond dispute. What other process in the world could account for such sweet and simple souls but abject misery and prolonged torture? Frank and Alice Longbottom certainly seemed happy when last he visited them. Had he been wrong in allowing Harry the freedom to make his own mistakes and live with the Weasleys rather than to place him at the Dursleys once again, through force if necessary? Or would the action of their separation make each part more reactive once they were brought back together and thus speed Harry's purification along faster than before?

Albus tossed such thoughts aside. It was not his place to question the course that the Greater Good set out; his was to monitor, maintain, and comport himself with the circumstances that it orchestrated and nothing more. And alas, though he might think it wise, it would not do for him to suggest such a drastic change of course today for either Harry or the goblins, especially without cause. Doing so would only give license to those like Lucius Malfoy in their attempts to use similar means against completely innocent populations: muggles, muggleborns, half-breeds, and the like. Had he been born in an earlier time though perhaps his insights into the workings of the Greater Good would have prompted a more expeditious course nonetheless.

_'Of course,_' he thought, _'had I been born any earlier then the events which brought me into such a communion with its ways would never have occurred at all – and thus, the Greater Good required me to be born when I was, rendering the whole discourse moot._'

Moving forward, the smaller figures of the Fountain came into view. In some ways it was sad that the centaurs continued to rebuff any attempt to reach out to them. Had they not, perhaps the wizarding world could incorporate the salt of the earth into their mix and better bind the country's three prime peoples together in friendship. Alas, it seemed unlikely to happen within his lifetime but the future was unwritten. The Greater Good would either see to it or leave them cast out to be trodden under by the slow and steady encroach of man.

The sight of Kingsley holding court at the Fountain pleased him immeasurably though. That a black man could have such a warm voice, sunny disposition, and good soul had always been evidence to him of the Greater Good at work. As the man met his eyes Albus felt a tug and quickly had to hold himself back from giving into the impulse to dive into the man's mind. That Kingsley sought to talk to him, perhaps in desperate need of counsel, was not extraordinary for they had often spoke in the past of this and that – but to feel a tug so strongly…

_'Perhaps I should stop,_' Albus thought, humming to himself as he considered matters for a moment. _'If the man is in such distress then his life or the lives of the Aurors he leads could be at risk. However, with Lucius's influence at work today then Cornelius will need all the reassurance and moral leadership that I can provide._'

The question then became figuring out which the Greater Good valued more: the lives and well-being of Kingsley and his Aurors or the untold number of muggles that Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act would aid, for if left on his own Cornelius may bend to Malfoy's manner and the chance to help those poor unfortunates could be lost. In the end it was a small thing that decided it. Kingsley had looked away while he'd been thinking and busied himself with his men again, with the clear intention to stay just where he was for some time to come.

_'There should be time enough to counsel him during breaks in the Wizengamot or to schedule a meeting some other time,_' he decided, turning away to head through the Atrium.

As easy as it would have been to take the information of what ailed him from the man's mind, it was a temptation that he could never allow himself to give in to. To access someone's secret sanctum and steal their innermost thoughts was to have power over them, and that kind of power was addictive and corrupting. Once you knew them better than they knew themselves they would soon have no choices left for they would always find themselves placed in situations where their actions were the ones you wished them to make, and though they may never know it, you would have to live with that eating away at your very soul.

Long ago Albus had learned that plotting for power and exploiting a position of strength to reshape the world around him into his vision of what should be was not to be his grand destiny; the desire for it was in fact his greatest weakness. Engaging in such thoughts for even one short summer had been enough to cause his sweet sister to lose her life and to begin the slow advance of Darkness that would eventually grow to consume the heart of the Continent. He could not – _would not_ – do that again. No matter what pain or strife may come as a result it would be a small price to pay to allow the people of the wizarding world the freedom to live their lives as they wish. It was the truly noble thing to do, and he was nothing if not noble.

"Ah, hello there, Professor," a guard at the Security desk called with a friendly wave as the one next to him offered a pink-cheeked smile. "I knew I'da _beeee_ seeing you today." The man's friend turned very red and tried to hide his laughter behind his hand.

Albus failed to see what was funny though, of course he would be here – the Wizengamot was here. He passed through the Ministry's golden gates while looking at them in askance. Whether they had intended it or not that felt very much like some joke at his expense, though besides the barbs of Rita Skeeter – a woman too ignorant to be worth being mad at or taken seriously – Albus had scarcely experienced such slights in the last century to be sure if they were or not. He was resolved not to let such a small thing dampen his mood though, this was to be a day of triumph for the Greater Good over the recalcitrant and such a day should be lived with a joyous heart.

As the lift arrived, Albus tried his best not to inwardly groan as a curly-haired witch in virulently green robes came with it. Ever since he had hit upon hard times Rita Skeeter was the one with the best robes to be found; hers sparkled so much they practically gave off its own light. While he had become quite adept in adapting what he had to new appearances, it just wasn't the same as having the real thing. Albus adopted his most contemplative and far-away expression in an effort not to engage her. The woman thrived on attention; he certainly wasn't about to let her know he was jealous. Unfortunately, that didn't seem destined to work.

"Ah, Dumbledore! There you are," the waspy woman said. "Come in, come in," she cried with a sting in her smile as she attached herself to his arm and pulled him inside. "Cutting it quite thin, aren't you?"

As the lift started moving Albus was trapped by good form and the confined space from beating a hasty retreat or shooing the woman off of him. Instead he used his most benign approach: empty small talk while keeping his thoughts to himself.

"I'm sure I'll make it in time," he smiled amused that she really thought that Cornelius would start without him. "I hadn't thought to see you here today though, Rita. I believe you once said that 'politics is the realm of useless old men talking past each other while everyone else is asleep.'"

"And so it is," she said guilelessly. "But a little bird told me that today would be a _very_ different affair."

"No doubt," he said nebulously, thinking of the vote to come. What Albus had no doubt about though was that Rita would find some way of framing the protection of their muggle cousins as some usurpation of pureblood rights to mistreat them.

_'Our muggle cousins,_' he thought to himself. _'Perhaps I should use that if some swaying speech becomes necessary. It would point to a bond of kinship between us all and not-so-subtly remind them that many families have the unspoken-of squib in the family that would benefit as well. Such a speech may even sway the most unreachable of people to our cause if they believe that I know who those squibs belonged to, especially if they were theirs,_' Albus surmised. _'There's no harm in letting people believe you know more than you do; they're only talking themselves into doing what is right for reasons that aren't, which is a pleasant little irony that no one would see._'

"And speaking of birds," he continued aloud, "we seem to be having an issue with that today."

"Whatever do you mean?" the reporter said curiously, looking up at him through her ludicrously long lashes.

"I am saddened to say that I was left bereft of the _Daily Prophet_ this morning," he explained. "The entire castle seemed to be lacking them."

"Ah, such a pity," she said with a sympathetic pat on his arm before finally moving away to dig into her crocodile-skin handbag. "I fear that I'm the cause of that," Rita's false sadness ringing as pride as clear as day to him. "My Lockhart article caused such an upswell in circulation that they needed to use the owls in our northern office just to deliver to the rest of the country. There was even talk of having to deliver the Hogsmeade ones _by hand_, if you can believe it."

"That does explain the figures I saw at the gates this morning," he said more to himself than to her.

Though his absence would needlessly delay them accomplishing their task, it was nice to know that he hadn't deprived any children a chance to see their future school. No doubt Minerva would see to them eventually. As if thinking of opening gates were some sort of spell, the lift finally arrived at Level 2.

"I look forward to reading it when I return then," Albus said with a mental tip of the hat he wasn't wearing to the woman who wouldn't deserve it even if he was but courtesy required it nonetheless. "Excuse me," he murmured as he took his leave of her.

A few steps later she was back at his side again. Floating next to her was an azure colored quill perched on a parchment like a peculiar parrot; the bright blue seemed to pop next to all the green she was wearing.

"Hello again," he said politely, peering at her over his half-moon spectacles. "No Quick-Quotes Quill today?"

"Oh, no," she said with a predatory smile as the quill scratched away furiously. "This one's True Blue. It's the finest one for speedy dictation and as a – recently made friend pointed out, when the truth is salacious, it really needs no embellishment at all."

Albus felt a niggling sense of unease for a moment before he simply had to reprimand himself.

_'Truth has always had a well-established liberal bias,_' he reminded himself. _'If Rita is moving towards embracing what is true rather than what is profitable, then that should be supported._'

"And even if it's not salacious," he said in his most grandfatherly voice, "the truth often proves disastrous to those who strive to hide their hate in glamorous garb and rosy tones."

Rita smiled, her eyes sparkling behind her rhinestone bespeckled spectacles, but before the woman could say anything more he was ambushed by two of the lowest-ranking members of the Wizengamot. Misses Woodbead and Nithercott were like peas in a pod: loud, boisterous women uninterested in anything but the most frivolous of affairs that spent most of their time talking amongst themselves. They were the worst sort person to have in a legislative body but the Wizengamot simply had to accept them; they were the only freeholds in their respective boroughs so as long as they kept voting for themselves they would always be voted in.

"Professor Dumbledore, we were hoping to speak to you today," Miss Nithercott said with a soppy grin. He had no idea what they would want with him and Merlin alone knew what Rita would make of them talking to him.

"And what fashionable robes," Woodbead cooed. "I should have known you'd be a Quidditch fan. Tell me," she prompted, "what's your favorite team?"

"Hogwarts has four teams that we are very proud of," Albus said in as dignified a fashion as he could. "And I find myself enjoying a game well played for its own sake rather than for what teams are participating in it."

"But surely you have a secret favorite," Woodbead said with a smile.

"Especially when Harry Potter is the Gryffindor Seeker," Nithercott giggled.

"Many famous witches and wizards have graced the skies of above Hogwarts," Albus resolutely replied, sparing a glance to Rita and her scratching quill as he mentally measured how much further there was to go to the Wizengamot chamber where he could finally be rid of them. "As Headmaster, it would be unseemly to even imply that I favored one above another, even in private."

"And how would you describe your relationship with Harry Potter?" Rita asked, the question earning quick approval from the other ladies.

"Relationship?" he asked, wondering what precisely she was implying.

Rita seemed to be concerned by this herself momentarily.

"How do you two get on, that is," she clarified. "Both in your role as Headmaster and outside of class, so to speak."

"As well as can be expected," he replied.

"But you are the one who allowed him to play for the Gryffindor team, were you not?" Rita pressed.

"The youngest Seeker in a century, I've heard," Woodbead agreed.

"That was mostly due to Professor McGonagall," Albus explained, trying his best to stay above House partisanship. "She requested the exception as Head of House citing Gryffindor's need for a Seeker and the boy's natural talent. I can't say for certain though whether his 'Youngest Seeker' distinction is strictly confined to Gryffindor, to Hogwarts as a whole, or whether other schools' histories were checked as well. He does play the position quite admirably though," he added lest it sound like he was being too standoffish.

"How do you think he measures up when it comes to the books?" Miss Nithercott asked, causing Albus to pause a moment to consider the odd wordage.

"About as well as any other boy his age, I'd have to say," he admitted curiously, though it felt as he wasn't being positive enough of Harry's accomplishments, current misplaced hostilities or no. "His teachers speak well of him and he seems to be getting on well with his classmates. And when it comes to books, while he has often been seen in the library, I think his inclination is towards more active and adventurous extra-curricular pursuits, as young men often are."

And with that Albus heaved a quiet sigh of relief as they entered the Wizengamot's bright Lobby area where they would all separate to go to their different sections.

"Oh, if I don't say this now I'll positively burst!" Miss Woodbead exclaimed. "I absolutely _adore_ every word you've ever written! I have the whole collection at home," she told him with a beaming smile, clasping his hand as if she could now die a happy woman.

"Oh yes, me too," Miss Nithercott agreed.

Albus was dumbfounded. "I had no idea that you two ladies were so well read," he said after a moment, feeling positively dreadful for having misjudged them for so long. "Which did you like the best?"

"How can you choose amongst them?" Miss Woodbead beamed. "They're a masterpiece from beginning to end."

"Which one do you like best?" Miss Nithercott asked in response.

"Nelly! You can't ask him something like that," Miss Woodbead chided her friend. "That's like asking a mother which of her children she loves most."

"Oh, I never thought of it like that," Nelly Nithercott confessed. "I hope I didn't offend you," she said to Albus.

"Not at all," he said soothingly. "There is something that I wrote back in my school days that – while not a groundbreaking masterpiece in itself and often overlooked," he said humbly. "–It nonetheless laid a framework for much of what came later. Its publication in _The Practical Potioneer_ put me in touch with those more learned and more connected to scholarly circles than myself who could help me in exploring the topics in depth. Many of the issues raised in it would be addressed more fully in later works, but much of my success had its root there."

_"Really?_ I didn't know that," Miss Nithercott breathed, seemingly in awe of receiving this little nugget of information.

"We've absolutely got to rush out and find it, Nelly," Miss Woodbead told her, taking her friend by the arm and starting to pull her away. "Thank you _so much_ for talking to us, Professor, I'm sure it'll shed new light on everything!"

As the two most unlikely academics scurried their way down the hallway to the lifts Albus had to wonder what this would do to today's vote total. He never relied on them as core supporters for anything but they had always been good about jumping on to support any measure that looked pleasant enough or sure to pass without them. He just had to hope that the other votes stood firm.

_'First bagpipes and now this,_' he pondered to himself. _'This day is getting more and more peculiar._'

"Well, I'll let you go and find a good seat," Dumbledore said to Rita with a much clearer – though nonetheless still pleasant – dismissal this time around.

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said as she surely slithered away. What some men saw in women Albus would never know.

Finally free of the frustrating females Albus was able to surrender the great weight that had settled on his shoulders in the last several minutes and return to his quiet center of calm. This was the nice and stately Wizengamot; there was nothing to trouble him here for even in the fiercest of debates the orderly system provided a naturally soothing ebb and flow. It was very much like the daily routine of Hogwarts with its well-ordered motion only here his students were old enough to be trusted to work out the answers for themselves – most of the time.

The polished floor was pale and perfect, the walls and columns politely peach pillars reaching up to support a blue sky-like ceiling that hosted a remarkable runic array that – while it actually accomplished nothing – certainly looked attractive as it constantly shifted about. It was almost enough to make one forget that they were underground and not in one of the grand muggle statehouses they loved to construct to show their political might.

His high-heeled buckled boots rang forth loudly on the smooth marble floors in ways the ancient stone hallways of Hogwarts couldn't compare. One simply couldn't help but to stand a little straighter and become a bit more in tune with your own personal poise and purpose when that sound echoed out.

_'Of course,_' Albus thought as he saw the third charmingly-rugged representative that was half his age and on his side of the political spectrum quickly blush at the sight of him and scurry for the doors to find his seat. _'Such personal poise did have other benefits, if one was of a mind to pursue them._'

Though he knew that he should be concerned with conquering his own vanity lest he become mired with a peacock's tail, Albus also knew that even at one hundred and eleven that he was still very much a man and would always fall short, would always look at that which was tempting. It made no sense to dwell on such things though; he had seen what came from indulging in such wants before. A second war with Voldemort was on the distant horizon and now was no time to distract oneself with such thoughts while there was still so much work to be done. A much greater concern was the presence of a pair of Hit Wizards at the Wizengamot's double doors and why one of them was preventing a distinctly disturbed Dedalus Diggle from entering.

"I've been sitting this seat for more than ten years," Dedalus's high voice squeaked as he rung his top hat in frustration. "I insist that you let me through!"

"And I've told you, sir, that I have my orders," the broad-shouldered, cold-eyed man said brusquely. "You insist on anything again and you'll find yourself in a holding cell until they have time to deal with you."

"Well, I never," the little man grumbled as he stuffed his purple hat back on his head.

"Is there a problem, Dedalus?" he asked as he approached the man in question.

"Albus, there you are! I was wondering how to get a hold of you; the Ministry's shut off most of the Floo Network for some reason," Dedalus digressed, as he often did when under stress. "There very much is a problem. These men won't let me inside."

"While I salute the ardor with which you do your jobs," Albus said to the two men with his most grandfatherly voice and comforting smile. "I assure you, fine officers, that Dedalus has every right to be here. He sits proxy for one of the most ancient of families and the legitimacy of his claim has never been questioned."

The burly man in front of them said looked to the one by the other door before responding. "I'm sorry, sir, but he's not going in," he said a bit more politely than he did with Dedalus. "You can take it up with the Minister, if you like, but until he says otherwise my orders stay the same."

That actually gave Albus a bit of mild surprise. While muggle protection was not a part of the Minister's political agenda – and even in private Cornelius had been ambivalent at best – he had never flatly stood in its way before. Albus didn't like the implications of this at all.

_'Making his displeasure known once the proposition had gained enough support to come to the floor on its own would have been enough to free himself of any political responsibility if the measure passed,_' he quickly surmised. _'Even making a speech against the proposal would have been the most that any reasonable anti-muggle backer could expect from him. Doing this risked ethics charges and reeked of rank corruption._'

"I shall look into this, Dedalus," he said matter-of-factly as he marched towards the door.

"A-Albus," the little man squeaked. "What they said in the Prophet – is it true?"

Albus paid him no mind for as crossed the threshold he was no longer the kindly old man he was before, he was the Chief Warlock! Garbed in the full force of his political might and mind filled with thunderous fury at those who sought to deprive the Greater Good its due, he marched up the aisle towards the two people who were behind this. The fact that Lucius sat beside the Minister in the Senior Undersecretary's seat at the very heart of the chamber told him everything he needed to know.

"Buzz-buzz," one of the Traditionalist toadies said with a smirk as the smarmy man passed him. The drone of conversation increased and Albus shut himself off from anything else the semi-circular room might bring to his attention so that he might better focus his thoughts.

_'Now we see the mechanizations of Lucius Malfoy at work,_' Albus thought to himself as the picture snapped together in his mind. _'The Hit Wizards are here to cow the sympathetic and imply that a dangerous threat looms in the distance while ordering the delay of ever-diligent Dedalus sows doubt and causes disruption on the pro-muggle side._'

The man had steadily spread his influence throughout the Board of Governors until they no longer respected his opinion; singling him out so that he was one voice amongst thirteen. He could not be allowed to do the same here in the Wizengamot. What end he had in mind today he couldn't be sure; to cause the vote to collapse was a certainty, but he couldn't rule out sending a signal to their bigoted kindred that they were free to target muggles again indiscriminately.

It was a more heavy-handed approach than he had ever taken before, much more akin to the Darkness that had surrounded the suspected deeds of his father, Abraxas, when he had tried to strangle the world into doing his bidding, but his father hadn't been the only Dark master that man would have served in the past. Political disagreements in other areas aside, Albus hated to think that Lucius would so casually throw his Second Chance away like this. Had he learned nothing from the Dark times of his youth?

As he reached the desk-like series of raised tier seating that housed the Officiating Seats, Albus regained his composure so that he was walking in a stately huff rather than a militant and murderous march. Striking the man down was the quick and easy path but it would do nothing to prove the rightness of his cause. Worse yet, it would serve to justify violence as a means to a political end and leave him ignorant of what he needed to know, and knowing was more valuable than being temporarily triumphant.

Going around to the left to climb the small series of steps, he passed through the first tier of scribes, time keepers, and vote counters with barely a glance. Stopping at the second tier, on which the Minister and his retinue sat, would have its uses in easing the talk between them but in the end Albus decided that the added height might lend extra weight to his cause and climbed to the third tier where the Chief Warlock sat alone.

Staring out at the assembled representatives of Wizarding Britain it was hard not to feel a little in awe of the responsibility, a responsibility not lessened by gazing up and seeing the almost vacant public viewing area for the politically minded. Rita Skeeter's green and dash of blue drawing his eye instantly as did the red of Arthur Weasley's hair. It was a pity that the man's office was so disliked as not to merit its own chair but needing to work together on issues in the future would help heal the rift between him and the man's family. Albus sat in the cushioned throne-like chair and arranged his robes before speaking to the men directly in front of him.

"There's nothing wrong with our Senior Undersecretary, I trust?" he asked Cornelius.

"She's fine; just fine," the Minister replied without looking back at him but rather busied himself with looking through the folder in front of him. "Dolores is on a mission of vital importance to the Ministry. Since she couldn't attend I asked Lucius to sit in her stead," he said casually.

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded, the statement ringing mostly true to his ear. Cornelius had sent her away, and on something he considered vital, but what that mission was he could not begin to contemplate. The last part though was a lie, or at the very least untrue. "That was very civic-minded of you, Lucius."

"Yes," the affluent aristocrat-in-all-but-title drawled, giving off the air of complete indifference as he looked out on the crowd. "As loath as I am to be a part of such... displays," he said with a gentle wave, "when the Minister asks, who am I to decline?"

Albus could read nothing from that. As with everything Lucius said over the years this read as neither the truth nor a lie, taking it with the Minister's untruth though it was easy to piece together what likely happened. Cornelius had indeed sent Dolores out on some "vital mission" – one perhaps concocted by Lucius Malfoy himself – and _he_ was the one that suggested to the Minister that he take her place.

This had much sadder implications than just an exchange of political favors for someone Cornelius had always called "a prominent member of wizarding society." Lucius Malfoy was meeting the Minister in secret and had gained his ear. Albus had wanted to believe that Cornelius was simply a little naive and inexperienced, and would soon learn that listening to the other side was one thing, consorting with them was another. Now it seemed as though the man had gained a march on him.

_'No wonder he wished to correspond rather than meet with me,_' he thought, feeling more than a little betrayed. _'So much for respecting me and my time too much to waste it; he simply didn't want to be caught out in his deception since my ear can't tell when what's written is false._'

As hard as it was to resist diving into people's minds, shutting off the ability to identify a falsehood when you heard it was nigh impossible for a Legilimens. It then fell to those of an unsavory sort who wished to go about undetected to find the means to do it. Those with the most mental discipline found their solution with Occlumency, a mental magic of closing one's mind to the outside world so they may speak without giving anything away, like Lucius did, though only true masters of it could convincingly lie. What a fool he'd been not to see this lesser evasion.

_'Still,_' Albus thought, coming back to his ever-positive look again._ 'Now that I know, I can redouble my efforts at friendship with him so that I might sway him to my cause. After all, everyone deserves a Second Chance._'

"There was an altercation brewing outside between Dedalus Diggle and a Hit Wizard," he said, trying to add as much pointed weight on them as possible through connotation alone. "The man seemed to imply, Minister, that you had barred him from this meeting."

Cornelius sniffed and turned to another parchment before commenting.

"I did," he said eventually, rendering his conversational tactics frustratingly ineffective when the man you're talking to won't turn to look at you. "I've been made aware of a substantial problem with his legitimacy as a proxy. The Ministry will have to look into it ourselves, of course, but that requires time. Surely you can see that it'd be inappropriate to have him here until it's resolved; there were some very serious charges involved."

"I can imagine," Albus replied stoically, though of course he didn't have to imagine at all; he had heard it all from Harry himself: Abandonment.

He had hoped that time and distance would give the child a chance to think things through and gain a different perspective so that they might reknit their friendship at Hogwarts, but alas, it seemed not to be the case. The goblins were going to press ahead and use the boy against him to viciously extract as much blood and life as possible, leaving him weakened and unable to act just when he needed to be strong for the Greater Good.

_'Although,_' he thought, trying to gauge Lucius's thoughts as the man turned to the Minister. _'They were not the only ones who would want that to happen._'

"If there's a problem with the Potter proxy here," the man drawled in that neutral-sounding voice. "Could it be the same with their proxy on the Board of Governors?" he asked. "I always thought it absurd that anyone would appoint a man like _Diggle_ to anything."

"I'll leave that to your good judgement, Lucius," Cornelius said with a ring of falseness evident; Malfoy must have already informed him of what he was going to do. "But there may well be. Merlin knows what trouble they could do at the school from there," he finished truthfully, giving away that he was already inclined to believe the man's version of events.

"I can imagine," Lucius replied as he finally turned to glance up at him those gray eyes that were just as emotionless as Severus's, or anyone else who practiced Occlumency. Whether from a slip of control or deliberate intention the corner of his mouth turned up in smug triumph. _'Double check,_' the man's smirk seemed to say with an air of mate not far behind as a gong resounded through the chamber signaling everyone to find their seats.

_'Beautiful,_' Albus thought, for once not thinking about the silky luxuriousness of the man's long blond hair. It had been so long since his last chess match with such a skilled player that he had thought he'd see the end of his days without another being played outside of his own mind, and here he was already deep into a game that had started with such an elaborate feint to lower his guard rather than cause him to respond.

_'So this is what's caused all of this,_' he almost cheered as Lucius resumed his leisurely pose. _'He's used his influence at Gringotts to discover my connection to Harry and now he's twisting the truth into these allegations to finally elbow me aside and gain control but the pride of the man couldn't help but be here to let me know that it was him._'

In a sense Albus had to admire the brilliance of the plan, even if it was doomed to fail. What did Lucius know or care about children? Nothing at all, obviously, or he would not be so obsessed in engraving his likeness onto his son. While the particulars regarding young Draco amounted to nothing – at least at the moment – the same shortsightedness and inability to understand the great mysteries of Love that proved to be Lord Voldemort's downfall would be his father's undoing.

Love had always been Albus's greatest defense though and Love would see him through this as well for it was evident in everything he had done on Harry's behalf. If the goblins insisted then they would have their day in court and the truth would come out – what parts of it that'd be prudent to tell at least – then he and the boy would be closer than ever. Lucius may strengthen his grip on the Minister and stranglehold on the Board in the meantime but with the truth revealed Lucius would be rendered powerless, his support would flee from him, while he and Harry would prove an unbeatable team and recoup all the influence they had lost with their squabble.

"Are we waiting for anything in particular?" Lucius asked the Minister in a slightly annoyed tone.

"Come along, Dumbledore, start us off," Cornelius called back to him.

The polished desk before him held only the Chief Warlock's gavel and was devoid of the customary orderly clutter of prepared remarks, schedule of speakers, or daily outline. None of the clerks two levels below him looked in any way eager to bring them to him either.

_'Yet another minor annoyance to trip me up,_' he thought as he withdrew the tentative outline and schedule from his inside pocket. _'It's always good to be prepared._'

Albus rapped the gavel twice sharply and saw Dedalus's anxious face peek through the door on the other side of the chamber. He quickly held up his hand to tell the man to hold off and that things were going to be alright lest he take it into his mind to see if the Hit Wizard was bluffing. With a querulous look on his face the man subsided and decided that he'd rather be elsewhere than where he wasn't wanted, which seeing as the alternative was a holding cell was probably for the best.

"This meeting of the Wizengamot is now in session," he announced loudly. "I believe the first order of business was–"

"Apologies, Chief Warlock," Cornelius said as he jumped up from his seat, "but I have a matter of supreme importance to bring to the floor regarding a threat to our national defense."

With that the chamber started buzzing like a hive of angry bees as the members turned to their neighbors to ask what was going on. Most of the disruption was at the rear of the chamber where the Borough Seats were, though if Misses Woodbead and Nithercott had attended it would have sounded like a riot – if they had been paying attention. The Ministerial Seats in the midsection merely looked inquisitive while the old family heads and proxies sat in their Counselor Seats at the front of the pack with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance at the outburst.

_'Well now they're overdoing it,_' Albus thought as he rapped the gavel again. "The Chamber will come to order!" he declared and rapped the gavel a few more times to instill quiet. _'It isn't enough to disrupt the vote; they mean to bury it too._'

'A threat to national defense' hadn't been uttered in the chamber for over ten years when the power the Aurors had been given the power to kill rather than capture had been revoked. That phrase alone would have been enough to cause the membership to forget about any other issue today, even without labeling it a matter of supreme importance. The absence of the customary paperwork now made ample sense since Lucius had convinced the Minister to toss it all aside.

"The Chair recognizes the Minister and his right to speak," Albus said reluctantly, though he really had no other choice. After all, what could take precedence over a matter of supreme importance? _'I wonder what cock and bull story they've come up with to turn things in their favor,_' he thought. _'Muggles starting an Inquisition to round up supposed witches for public execution?'_

"Honorable Lords and Ladies, Ministerial Notables, and elected Representatives from around the country," the Minister began, calling out each section in their respective titles as so few speakers ever did anymore. "The welfare of Wizarding Britain, of the entire wizarding world, is in peril from a threat caused by one of our own."

A chill wind froze the Wizengamot in their seats as the name that none but him would say hung in the air unspoken; even Albus felt the shock of it. How could the Minister know that Voldemort was still alive? The fact that his spirit remained tethered to this side of death was a secret known to very few and with the deaths of Nicholas and Quirrell fewer still were left to share that secret at all.

Harry would never have told, of that Albus was sure. He was the leader of his little heroic group and Heroes do not foist their burdens upon the world at large for them to deal with as they would. If they shared them they only did so reluctantly, and with their most trusted companions. And Severus, while not the glowing Champion of Light as much as he was its Dark Knight, still relied upon the utmost secrecy if he were ever to see the one who struck down his lost love be vanquished. He would have told no sooner than Albus would; that left only Voldemort himself to make his presence known.

_'He is too prideful; too desperate not to be seen as weak in front of his followers to ever approach them in such a powerless state,_' or so he had always thought._ 'Why would he do so now? And more curiously, why would Lucius bring this to the Minister, much less be so calm? Had he received clemency, a pardon?_

_'And what of all those other poor unfortunates that made the same mistake in the past? They've had ten years to build new lives for themselves only to have their Second Chances snatched away in the following mayhem. Why would he do this? Why disrupt his own base of political support just when he was ascendant, just to show that he could have won if he had wanted to before upturning the chessboard?'_

This couldn't come out now; Harry was far too young. He'd have nothing to do, no trials through the years to strengthen him for what lies ahead or the sacrifice that had to be made. It didn't make any sense!

"To be clear," the Minister said to a rapt audience, "I speak not of a threat posed by a new dark wizard, but by a wizard who has betrayed the great trust that we've placed in him."

The relief in the room was almost palpable, though Albus was sure he felt it the most.

"For centuries the safety and security of our world has been guaranteed by strict adherence to international treaties, laws, and agreements for without them we would always be at threat from wizarding armies popping from country to country, strange new creatures rampaging through our streets, and our populace flaunting their gift before muggles in ways we cannot contain," he went on to say. "Forsaking and forbidding these kinds of acts on a global scale is what allows our society the freedom to develop in the way that we wish, for if we allow these things to occur and threaten the Secrecy of our world then others would take it upon themselves to step in to make sure that Secrecy is kept.

"And now, one of our own stands accused of willfully violating one of the first of these treaties that could devastate not only our economy but our sovereignty itself," Cornelius cried cajoling his curiosity with that comment. "As we speak, foreign_ 'investigators_' from the International Confederation of Wizards are swarming into our country to find and arrest the ones responsible for this terrible breach of trust. They do so without our consent or cooperation – for we were not informed until it was too late to stop them!"

Distressed and disgruntled murmurs sprouted in the chamber but all Albus had were doubts; that certainly didn't sound like the I.C.W. of which he was a part. He could think of no treaty that would spell certain doom of that magnitude should they really be broken, and they wouldn't have flown off to intervene in a country's private affairs, he would have made sure of it. They deserved the opportunity to resolve whatever the matter was themselves and become better people for it and surely they would have recalled him for an emergency meeting if the situation was truly so dire. Even were he not Supreme Mugwump, how could they hope to handle such a thing without him?

"This cannot stand!" Cornelius declared, pounding the desk in front of him with a fist. "They are bypassing our Ministry, spitting on our laws, and conspiring with non-humans to bring this about. How can Magical Britain call itself a sovereign nation if we let this go unanswered?"

Elderly Lord Fawley stood up and clutched his cane is if he meant to march off and fight them by himself. Next to him, Dowager Lady Selwyn motioned him to retake his seat.

"British lawbreakers are British lawbreakers and they are _ours_ to deal with as we choose," the Minister continued. "The I.C.W. has no right to swoop in and take our rights away and imprison citizens of Magical Britain on their own. They should be down on bended knee and begging us to take this criminal cabal in hand, not conspiring with our adversaries against us!"

This statement gained a grumbling support from from the chamber and even a smattering of applause.

"This international band of thugs will not get what it's come for and will find no welcome here," Cornelius declared, leaving Albus to wonder how he was to play peacemaker between the two misguided groups. "To ensure the safety and security of our society I've sent an agent to tell them to get off our lands, dispatched the Auror Corps to protect our main centers of activity against attack, and Hit Wizards now stand guard on certain vulnerable targets in the countryside – such as your homes," he said looking at Fawley, who subsequently returned to his seat on shaky knees.

Albus could see that this was quickly spiraling out of control. Unless something could be done to moderate the situation some irrevocable change could occur, and it was always uncertain if such a change would be in accordance with the Greater Good. _'Yes,_' he thought, a plan forming in his mind. _'Already the Greater Good seeks to redress the imbalance caused by Lucius's plotting by placing me in the perfect position to come to the aid of the country in this trying time._' Who better to calm the international waters than him?

"Minister," he interjected politely as the Minister paused for effect.

"Yes, yes, Dumbledore, I was just getting to that," Cornelius replied with a dismissive wave before returning to address the chamber as a whole. "After speaking to the one at the heart of these allegations and explaining the complications involved, they have agreed to step down from their positions of power within the Ministry and within the Wizengamot itself."

Silence once again overtook the chamber as the implications settled in. It was one thing to know that an international incident had been caused by a countrymen and quite another to have been in close quarters with them, possibly for years. The Minister's last statement didn't ring true for Albus in the slightest though.

Had he not spoken to the one at the heart of the issue? Had he not explained what he said he had? Had they vowed never to step down and thus taint the entire Ministry with the allegation? Had he been forced to take them into custody, both for their own protection and to prevent them from causing a scene? There was simply too many ways it could have gone and without knowing the person in question it was impossible to guess which was the most likely. The absence of Dolores Umbridge took on a more telling tone though since she was hardly the person you'd send on such a diplomatic mission.

"Though this comes as an unforeseen shock to us all," the Minister said somberly, "I would like to commend Professor Dumbledore for doing the responsible thing in this regard by stepping down. And I want him to know that as long as I am Minister of Magic, everyone in this country is still innocent until proven guilty in a court of law."

Albus didn't know what point Cornelius thought he had been going to raise but that certainly wasn't it, and by announcing that he still was innocent until proven guilty the man might as well have pronounced him guilty on the spot. How could he have been this mysterious bogeyman? What international treaties had he broken to cause the I.C.W. to conspire with... A color change had him look down to notice to his horror that his robes had returned to their normal state of moons on purple. Someone had negated the charms!

Glancing over to Lucius he saw the man's steely gray eyes looking up at him and suddenly everything made sense. The I.C.W., in league with the goblins of Gringotts, and at odds with the Ministry, raises the concerns around him into a new level of discourse that would only serve to tarnish his reputation in all areas simultaneously while putting them in a standstill. Trying to ignore the hit to his vanity, Albus tried to admire the level of planning and political gamesmanship that had been involved in pulling this maneuver off, but in truth he knew that the victory didn't belong to Lucius either.

"While we see to mitigating the damage that the alleged breach could cause, if Security could please escort Professor Dumbledore into protective custody," Cornelius said, gesturing to the two Hit Wizards by the door. "We can make sure that he is safe until he can be returned to Hogwarts where he can prepare his defense. Merlin knows how much he loves his books," he added with a smile Albus didn't have to see to know was there, gaining a few chuckles from isolated corners of the crowd.

_'Now I see that even you do the work of the Greater Good,_' Albus thought sadly as he looked on Lucius. _'How could this be anything else but its work?'_

Choosing to descend in a stately manner and meet the approaching Hit Wizards at the base of the steps rather than throw a childish tantrum over the fact that he had never agreed to resign his positions in the first place, Albus tried to reconcile himself with the arduous burden ahead of him. The Greater Good wanted him defamed, wanted him humbled, wanted to test his resolve to keep the secrets that he had pledged to keep so that he might become a more pure vessel for the Light of the Greater Good and thus was casting him down into this darkness alone. Albus followed behind his Hit Wizard guide as they escorted him from the chamber amidst fierce whispering.

This was his task, his burden to bear, and when these trials were done, when he had passed the tests, when the truth was known, and he was vindicated in all eyes so that the Light shined forth from him like the sun itself it would be as if he were reborn like a phoenix; awesome and inspiring to behold. Harry would be returned to his friendship and his tutelage, the country would hail him as the great man he was, and the international community would be humbled before him. Then, surely then, would be the time to tell the boy of his destiny and reveal to the world the truth of Voldemort.

_'Yes,_' Albus thought as the doors to the Wizengamot closed behind him. _'They would all see the truth of things then._'

.o0O0o.

**AN:** I don't like Guest reviews for one particular reason: I see reviews as a conversation starter since they give me a chance discuss things with the reviewer themselves - and Guest reviews don't allow that to happen.

One particular Guest review that was just made on this chapter was how "it's not remotely believable" for Dumbledore to simply go along with people maligning him and being thrown out of the Wizengamot. I find this particularly short-sighted because that's precisely what happened in OotP. He announced that Voldemort had returned, the entire wizarding world turned against him, booted him out of office, and he not only accepted it without a fight but allowed the Ministry to put Dolores Umbridge in place at Hogwarts as DADA professor when he had to know that their goal was to take over the school as well.

And why would Canon Dumbledore do this? Because he believed that eventually the truth would be revealed and everything would go back to being the way it was before, that's obvious. So why is it acceptable and believable for him to act this way in the series and unacceptable and unbelievable for him to do the exact same thing here? Your argument makes no sense.

Anyway, as always, thanks for reading.


	27. There's Always the Chance of Bacon

**AN:** The events of this year and the year before are going to fundamentally alter the nature of Wizarding Britain to its very core in ways that even I'm not 100% sure about. After an untold number of years of stagnation, the wizarding world is finally going to change; that change takes time though and isn't some subplot, it's a story unto itself and must be seen as such.

That being said, let's get on with it.

.o0O0o.

Alastor Moody never liked giving up an advantage but with the operation taking place in broad daylight and in the heart of muggle London brooms were out of the question, at least until they got a reading on the capabilities of the enemy. Even Disillusioned, the fliers would leave rippling traces as they passed through the air – and even muggles were sure to notice that – so Secrecy demanded that it had to be avoided unless the attack specifically called for it.

Plus, if things went bad – or the enemy's defensive structure proved more resistant than it looked, which was likely – there was the chance that their own spells would bounce off and take out more of their own than any enemy would, which was a complication you didn't need in the air. This would leave them not only on foot but more likely denied any chance at a height advantage.

The room that overlooked the entryway to Diagon Alley wasn't ideal but the only rooftop that would provide a view of the entire alley would be Gringotts itself, which was out of the question. A spell on the windows obscured anyone from looking in while they were free to look out to coordinate and pick their positions. The bank being so large gave the goblins and their I.C.W. allies the advantage of being able to pop out from any window they wanted, but it also gave them a larger area to defend.

Their job was not to attack though but to defend, if necessary. They were to give a reassuring display of Ministerial power just by being noticeable, but should any advance make its way out of the bank it would be blunted by a quickly formed barricade on either side of the street while reinforcements were called for. The rest would see to the evacuation of the alleyway before he would decide where best to use them. One of their number wasn't content at slowly coming to grips that this very well could be for real and his magical eye spun to the youngest member of their group just as he opened his mouth.

"I don't even see what we're doing here," the young blond grumbled to the older lad beside him. "Seems rather stupid to me."

Jameson cut himself off when he saw that Alastor was looking at him, and then colored deeply when everyone else's attention focused on him. The wood floor made his artificial leg _thump!_ loudly as he made his way menacingly over to the boy. The lad's mouth opened and closed a time or two, his ability to speak temporarily lost due to being singled out.

"You have something to add?" he barked, pinning the boy down with both eyes.

"N-n-no, sir," Jameson stammered.

"You sure?" Alastor pressed, swiveling his magical eye around to gauge the reaction of the crowd; they seemed more embarrassed for the kid than anything else. "If you've got something to say then say it, before whatever you see gets everyone killed."

That changed people's attitudes faster than buckets of ice water.

"I – I was just–," Jameson said looking around at all the now-concerned faces as he hunted for a better way to say things. "–Just wondering where the Hit Wizards were in this," he said finally. "It seems like something along their lines. Right?"

Alastor wasn't surprised that the kid had heard the tripe the Ministry put out about how diverse and well-organized their system was but believing it was another matter entirely. Practical experience in the last year should've shown the kid when he was being lied to. He paused for a moment to consider how hard he could hit the bureaucrats above him without it getting back to them and have them drum him out of the Ministry in response, but then an unsettling thought caused the whole world to go widdershins.

_'__Maybe I'm wrong,_' he thought. _'A Hit Wizard's job is to charge in shouting spells without pausing to think about why they were doing it; an Auror is supposed to question, and it's been a long time since I've questioned anything – let alone myself._'

International agreements prohibited the creation of wizarding armies, but that didn't stop the Ministry from pushing the Auror Corps forward as their soldiers during the war. They even disbanded the local Constabularies and Fly-By-Night patrols the D.M.L.E. had always had in order to swell their ranks. Hit Wizards had been scaled back, held in reserve, and generally lost their importance as their job was foisted on the Auror Corps as time went on and things got worse. Pushing Scrimgeour to make Aurors into weapons like the Hit Wizards had been would solve one problem but create another.

_'__You can't hammer people into acting without thinking and expect them to question why things are happening,_' Alastor grumbled to himself.

The Ministry needed a heavy hitting iron core of small scale soldiers that could kill without their conscience crippling them later. They had to be a small force – and using them a rare event – or it would only incentivize those at the top to clamp down on dissent harder and harder for smaller and smaller infractions, and that would make the Ministry no better than Death Eaters. With an inward groan he knew that reforming the way things were done was going to be a much bigger task than he had first thought.

"If you were the Minister of Magic," Alastor said with a squint of his good eye. "And suspected that the goblins might attack – but were confident that they couldn't pierce the Ministry – where would you put your men?" he asked Jameson.

It was a common kind of question to ask when training cadets on how these missions were handled but not one Jameson would've heard before. They were usually well into their second or third year of training before the topic was broached and after that it wasn't mentioned again unless they showed an aptitude for command. If they were going to reform anything then his Aurors needed to think, because when it came down to it the Ministry needed all three prongs when fighting crime: the officers on the street maintaining good relations with the locals and handling small affairs, the ones that took charge of larger issues – that investigated the scene, traced things back to their source, and infiltrated as much as possible in order to gain information – and the break-down-your-door-and-bludgeon-you Beater brigade.

"If – Well, if they wanted to cause carnage," the blond-haired young man started. "Their focus would be here," Jameson said, reiterating the basic briefing they had back at the Ministry. "So I'd put my forces here."

"Why?" Alastor smiled, knowing the disconcerting affect that his smile had on people.

"Why to which?" the boy asked.

"Why to both," he replied, pressing the lad to get him to start his brain.

"Be-because they live here," Jameson responded as if it were obvious.

"And they have wizards with them to take them wherever they want to go," he pointed out, swiveling his eye around to peer outside to make sure they weren't observed.

"Then-then I'd keep some at the Ministry just to make sure it was safe," the lad said, mind working furiously to come up with something that wasn't simply the briefing he'd been given. "And some in Hogsmeade," he continued, looking like his attempt at originality was failing miserably. "But most of the force should be here at the most likely source of attack. It might make them reconsider entirely or if they did attack elsewhere we could quickly divert forces or counter-attack here."

"Then why aren't Hit Wizards here?" Alastor asked, flipping the boy's question around on him.

"Sir?" a puzzled Jameson asked.

"Don't 'sir' me, you're the Minister of Magic," he reminded the boy. "Why aren't the Hit Wizards here?"

"I – I don't know," the young lad answered.

"Really?" Alastor asked with mock surprise. "They've got to be somewhere. You're tucked up safe and sound in the Ministry but your family and friends are scattered about all over the country. What are they going to say – or those big, rich political supporters of yours – if you let the goblins attack and do nothing to keep them safe?"

"B-but–," Jameson looked properly bludgered now, and so did several others. "Why would the Ministry assign the Hit Wizards there when they could have us do it instead?"

His magical eye scanning the assembled Aurors, Alastor saw an older face to the right fall and take on a sickly color. He should've expected that one to get it; word around the office was that he had just started dating one of the Ministry-working muggleborns. Alastor pointed to him without turning his head from Jameson.

"Say it," he snapped.

Jameson blinked and glanced nervously around, unsure who he was talking to.

"Come on, Robards, out with it," Alastor ordered.

"Because the Ministry values those people more than everyone else," the other Auror said numbly.

The simple truth that none had dared to say held them all in silence.

"And more than they value any of us, which is why we work together," Alastor added after a moment, this time addressing everyone there; Jameson looked relieved just to be a bit further away from him. "Now let's get this one thing very clear," he said gruffly, pausing to impress the moment into their memory. "We're not here because the Ministry expects something to happen; we're here because if something _does_ happen, we're the only protection these people have."

His team properly motivated, it was time for final orders.

"Barricade teams, you know who you are and what to do. Williamson, I want you up on the roofs on the left side of the alley, near the bank," Alastor said to one ponytailed Auror. "Hitchens, you take the right," he said to a woman with an eye patch. Just because the bank itself gave the goblins a height advantage didn't mean he wasn't going to try to get it where he could.

Robards looked at him questioningly as the bulk of the group left the room but held his tongue as he looked to be puzzling his motivations out. Though both those named were solid choices, by seniority the older fellow ranked above either and if anyone was going to be put in such an open position the man would have taken it on himself. Alastor had other plans for the one brain there that could be triggered to think though.

The ponytail may have made Williamson look stupid but he wasn't. Kingsley praised his defensive charms and that's what he wanted on those roofs; the barricades had to be protected and the ones protecting them had to be able to protect themselves. The Hitchens woman had declined to get her eye replaced like he had but Alastor knew that with a Supersensory Charm she could see like anyone else. Now that everyone was used to the patch though perhaps he could get Rufus to talk her into it; doing so didn't mean she had to give up the eye patch and his replacement eye had been worth losing the original one twice over.

After pausing for a moment to picture himself as one of those lizards with the eyes that moved in different directions he sent the others off with orders ranging from finding defensible positions in the alley they could use to just milling about and calming the shopkeepers, who'd no doubt be spooked at the sight of so many Aurors. They were his reserve but he had to give them something to do until he called on them. When he was finally left with Jameson and Robards he cancelled the concealment on the windows and headed for the door.

"You'll be with me today, Robards," Alastor said as he hit the hallway.

"Er – and what will I be doing, sir?" blond-haired Jameson asked almost sounding like he'd prefer to be overlooked.

"Apparition doesn't work in the Alley," he explained. "So you're going to be our Runner. You sit your butt by the fireplace and if we get a message from the Ministry, you run and let me know what it is. In the meantime, learn to use that brain of yours. Think you can do that?"

Alastor didn't wait for his response any more than he waited for Robards to follow him downstairs. Jameson's muttered comment could be a young man's insolence, vanity, or laziness but at least he was questioning things in some form or fashion. At one time Aurors had lived on questions and discerning answers, now they lived on procedure – and paranoia, if they had listened to him at all. What was best for him now was to be left with his questions and shaken confidence; the boy would either embrace them and learn to look out for himself and others or he'd leave – many did.

It was in the alleyway that Robards finally broke his silence.

"Wouldn't it be wiser to send them all home?" he asked, looking around at the trickle of early morning shoppers.

"It'd be safer, perhaps, but not always wiser."

Robards gave a grudging nod. "We're not here to stop them from living their life," the man said in a rough approximation of Alastor's own growl. "Just to protect them while they do."

Alastor gave him a look with his magical eye and the man didn't even have the grace to blush. Why did he always end up pairing himself off with the ones that thought they were funny?

As the bank came into view he didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, no one peering down from the roof or spying on the street from the windows, and no spell work done for additional concealment. There seemed to be layers of protections on the building itself though, but that wasn't unexpected. The doors were still shut and there was only one nervous-looking teller outside to take deposits and issue cheques but all told the place looked no different than it had the day before.

The barricade teams looked to be in good positions and the angles from the bank windows didn't seem as advantageous as he had first thought. Alastor gave them both a nod and turned back to make his way down the alley again to meet up with the others as he reached out through his magical eye to peek into the bank itself. Whatever enchantments they had put on the doors over the years weren't enough to keep him out, but they did slow him down something frightful – at least he thought it was frightful until he saw what was in the lobby, and then he almost shit himself.

.o0O0o.

"Is that thunder?" Barchoke asked as the sound of a rumbling roar and diving crash somewhere in the distance drew his attention away from the dense foliage that surrounded them. Looking up at the overcast sky, he wondered what else would go wrong today.

"I think that's the waves again," Bankor said as he lowered the hood of the bulky muggle child's coat he had gotten somewhere. He looked behind them before turning back to the chart he carried, turning it over again. "I think I have this upside down."

When they had initially planned for the advance team to arrive early, secure the portkey arrival point, and pinpoint the wardstone they needed to nullify it had been seen as a rather quick and easy task to do, after all, they had the old map that showed where it was. The main island was described as a barren chunk of rock in the middle of the North Sea, but that had been made six hundred years ago and there were things growing here now. Flamel or his visitors must have made some improvements along the way for a change of scenery.

As the time for the attack had gotten closer and closer, more and more teams had arrived to find that first task was still undone. The foliage that had made it impossible to know whether what they were looking for was ten feet away or on the other side of the island had made it easy to hide themselves from the compound though. The last thing they needed was to walk into an enemy that was prepared for them while they were still disorganized.

It was getting very close to the designated time and everyone seemed to be getting a little jumpy, or at least Barchoke felt that way. With each second that passed it became harder to justify not calling off the search and proceeding without it. Strictly speaking, nullifying the wardstone wasn't absolutely essential but leaving it in place meant scrapping the plan to keep them from being double-crossed and since that had been his big contribution – at least the one with the greatest chance of success – he didn't want to give it up and look like he didn't know what he was doing.

"The tower is back that way," Bankor muttered to himself as he glanced to the right. "And the portkey point is behind us," he said as Barchoke moved over to check the map with him again. "That should mean that the wardstone is right about here," the other goblin gestured to the clearing around them where they had gone off to confer amongst themselves after the teams had searched it for a third time.

"You think it could be over that way?" Barchoke asked, pointing in the direction the I.C.W. head wizard had just gone to search.

Bankor seemed to study the plants in that direction for a moment before answering.

"It may be," he said finally. "The goblins who made this didn't seem to know anything about drawing to scale, at least when it came to things above ground. I'm not looking forward to exploring though," the Little Minister said unnerved at the very thought of it. "There's no telling which of these plants are poisonous. They could be _carnivorous_ for all we know."

"Who's ever heard of a carnivorous plant?" Barchoke asked rhetorically.

In truth he wouldn't be opposed to some of those I.C.W. types finding their way into the jaws of some giant leafy beast. Their leader had been particularly testy when they had opened Confidential's most prized vault to find that the Stone had indeed gone missing. He didn't get any nicer when none of the former department's workers seemed to know anything about it either, even going so far as to insinuate that they had been killing them to cover up the truth, which was patently ridiculous. He may want to tear Dumbledore apart himself for what he did to Hammerhand but he wasn't about to do anything that'd let him get away with even more crimes because of it.

"I'm not saying there is, but who's to say there's not?" Bankor unnecessarily replied as he fought to fold the chart down so he could put it in his pocket. "If my contact in the Goblin Liaison Office is still working there tonight I can ask him; he may be able to find out."

"I'm surprised you were able to find a human worth working with," he said as he stooped to pick up a stick to poke at the potentially poisonous plants with. "It took a generation to find Lichfield and he gets moody at the best of times."

A sharp jab at a moss-covered stump had them suddenly under attack. The stump sprang to life; long, prickly, bramble-like vines shot out of the top and whipped through the air. Bankor beat a hasty retreat as one of the whirling vines smacked Barchoke in the face and another ripped the stick from his hands. After that he retreated as well.

It wasn't until they were halfway across the clearing again that the Whateveritwas stopped trying to kill them. He looked startlingly at Bankor but it looked like an 'I told you so' was beyond him. Barchoke hated to think that a thousand years of living underground had left them amazingly ignorant of the natural world but it was a hard thing not to think when the proof had just hit him in the face.

"While there is a marked lack of sympathetic wizards in regards to the goblin perspective," the other goblin said choosing to completely disregard what had just happened. "Mr. Hobson's not above pointing out what he calls 'the inherent stupidities of wizarding culture' as well as offering up any solutions he has at hand, no matter what culture came up with them, be they wizarding or muggle."

"I've heard they prefer 'non-magical people,'" Barchoke said, feeling the need to reestablish some kind of supposed authority by minorly correcting the other goblin's choice of words. If Lichfield thought he'd make a habit of saying 'non-magical people-borns' or the like though he'd have another thing coming.

"I'll make a note of that when we get back," Bankor said without a hint of the sarcasm he would've used in his place. "It's precisely this openness to other perspectives, his Ministry experience, and his vigorous interest in learning about goblin culture that makes me see him as a valuable asset to acquire. And while I think he's a natural contender to head any new record keeping department, he's nonetheless preeminently qualified at exploring and employing practical solutions in any post-Stone modernization of Gringotts in some other comparable capacity."

"Well, as long as he stamps that agreement he should get something for it," he replied. "You'll have a hard time convincing Gutripper though. One Marsh is bad enough; I can't imagine what it'd be like if we start opening more positions in management to humans."

"I'm glad you see it that way," the Little Minister smiled before continuing in that equivocating way of his. "And while it would precipitate a change in that regard, it would be somewhat inaccurate to refer to him as strictly human."

"What do you mean?" Barchoke asked curiously.

"I suppose that the most accurate way to describe him," Bankor tentatively began, "would be to say that we all share a common familial history in some regards."

It was a bit of a baffling moment to see how that could possibly be the case but then it became much harder not to give the other goblin a look as the very unsettling realization dawned on him.

"He's a Brownblood," Barchoke said levelly.

"If someone wished to sum such a thing up in a single word, that would be a word they could use," Bankor said diplomatically.

"You can't be seriously suggesting–"

"–I'd gouge the table on it," Bankor interrupted him a bit pompously.

Barchoke looked at the other Overseer curiously. Bankor had interrupted him; he never interrupts _anyone_.

"You've never gouged the table on anything," he said suspiciously.

"Quite right," the other goblin agreed. "But until the other day, neither had you, and that's worked out well so far," he noted, and Barchoke had to agree that he had a point. "I'd also point out that the Ministry classifies him as _part_-goblin," Bankor said back in his old way of speaking again. "That gives him a distinction that could be valuable to have."

"Such as?" Barchoke prompted.

"The ability to legally use wands," he replied with a smile. "The Code of Wand Use, passed by the Wizards' Council of England in 1631, decrees that 'no non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand,' but it further defines a human as those with 'provable human ancestry.' So while the equitable practice of allowing any creature to purchase and use a wand may never be reached–"

"–Using part of a wizarding bloodline for that could be work-around," Barchoke finished for him as he heard someone coming through the foliage towards them. "Something like that would require near unanimity," he said, knowing Marsh and Gutripper would be intransigent, the latter probably wouldn't allow anyone to overrule him, and everyone else would actually support him doing that. "We can discuss it sometime later."

_'__Hopefully much later,_' he thought to himself. Employing them might be one thing, but overruling Gutripper, putting him down somehow, and then offering some kind of incentive program for others to breed with this Hobson just to create a caste of goblin wizards was something else entirely. There'd be no way the secretarial pool would let any of them walk away unbloodied after suggesting that. No matter how hopeful Bankor could be, some things just weren't able to be changed.

Out of the greenery not too far from the formerly flailing stump came a huffing young human male in more than rumpled robes. Apparently there was more than just angry stumps out here. He scanned them both as he came to a stop.

"Sorry," he said in a heavy accent as he caught his breath. "But vich is Overseer Birch-oak?"

"You find something?" Barchoke asked in response.

"Yis, sir," the young man smiled. "Ve found it," he said gesturing to the wall of green he just came out of.

"I'll go check to see if there's any news from the Ministry," Bankor said quickly before the coward retreated back to the arrival point.

"Lead the way," he told the human with a wave.

Moving through all the plants and things was slow going; there were leaves, and dirt, and knobby branches everywhere. The levels below Gringotts might not be as luxurious as the levels above but there was a lot to be said about cold, hard, well-dressed stone. The young human was courteous enough to hold back some of the more troublesome obstacles but even then Barchoke knew that his suit would probably be ruined by the time he got out of here. Still, he supposed it could be worse; at least it wasn't raining.

They finally arrived at a tiny clearing and looking back the way he'd come he had a hard time judging how far it was back to the clearing he'd just left. In the midst of this new clearing they found the I.C.W.'s pudgy Deputy Inspector General, Jean-Olivier Delacour running his hands along a large weathered stone jutting from the ground with all sorts of wizarding runes carved on it. After a moment he removed one of his hands from the stone so he could stroke his pointed black beard.

"I 'ave never seen anything like zis before," he grinned when he saw Barchoke, which was a far cry from how he was the last time he had seen the man. "Eet is _charmant!_ I am looking forward to studying zis very much."

"You will be able to cancel its effects, won't you?" he asked, hoping to remind the human of how easy he'd said it would be once they had gotten him there.

"Eet is different zan expected," Delacour said wiggling his hands in an equivocating manner. "Whoever made zis, zey did not use Arithmantic principles at all but string all the runes together and zey spin off in many directions. We should be able to find ze parts you want to undo, don't worry."

Somehow the man didn't look too confident but Barchoke's concern was short lived. Through the undergrowth came the sounds of intense chopping coming towards them from the direction they'd just come.

"Aleksei, would you?" the older wizard asked, gesturing to the noise before turning back to the wardstone. The younger human withdrew his wand and cast a spell that made all the plants and branches bend over backwards to move out of the way.

_'__Doesn't look like foreign wizards are any smarter than ours or he would have done that for us,_' Barchoke groused to himself.

A guard led Bankor's way into the small clearing sheathing his weapon and some distance behind them he could see another wizard coming up behind with a broom in hand.

"This just arrived," the other Overseer said happily as he handed over several parchments as they moved off to one side to talk.

"Ha! Perfect!" Barchoke cried, the most unlikely part of his mad gamble actually paying dividends. "Tell Overseer Gutripper to ready the attack," he said turning to the accompanying guard.

"Yes, sir!" the goblin said, saluting before returning down the magical pathway, almost knocking over the approaching wizard by refusing to move.

"Thank you, Mr. Hobson," he said appreciatively as he checked the Ministry's official seal. "Good work," Barchoke said, nodding to Bankor.

"It just goes to show what can be accomplished when goblin and wizard work together," the other Overseer said. "By way of complete disclosure though," he said tentatively when Barchoke started to move toward the wardstone, causing him to halt again. "I know you wanted no humans involved on our side of things, but once I learned that Hobson was going to be subjected to many hours of unnecessary overtime I felt that Litigator Lichfield would be our best means of approaching him at the Ministry. As it happened, he also had his own reasons to be there today as well."

Instantly Barchoke felt a niggling sense of conflict. He had put in place the temporary ban on human involvement as a way of sidelining Marsh and any other human like him that would've gone running to the Ministry in the hopes of spoiling their plans. Naturally, he had never intended to include Lester in it but he had never specifically said as much, so what was he to do?

Had it been Marsh or Gutripper that had gone against his wishes there would've been only one reason behind it: to undermine his position and take him down. And while his 'gouge the table' moment earlier was certainly cause to worry, instead of using guile and deceit in order to attack, Bankor had used his specific knowledge of the people involved to support his plan and give it the best chance of working. If he did nothing it could signal the others that his wishes could be countermanded or subverted with impunity – not something you wanted if you wished to have a long career at the top – but if he did act against him then he'd be punishing him for success.

When he thought of it, actually approaching the Ministry hadn't been something he had been thinking about then and if there had been one human that he couldn't have objected to they would have assumed it'd be Lester. And with Lester so heavily involved in everything else so far, Bankor had probably thought it only a tiny risk to take seeing as all the gains that could be made for them all. So in a way it wasn't him countermanding his wishes, he had–

Barchoke looked at the Overseer shrewdly.

_'__He had employed a "practical solution based on wizarding culture,_"' he thought to himself.

When he really considered the circumstances, having someone else involved in the decision-making process by contributing ideas not only increased the likelihood of success but lessened the chance that failure could be used against him since at least one other person shared responsibility. One of the strangest things about his unofficial – and potentially temporary – position in the hierarchy was the way everyone seemed eager not just to get along but to make proposed ideas better. If he could make that the standard practice…

"While I can't deny the results," Barchoke said just as tentatively as anything Bankor had ever done. "And appreciate the lengths you went to in order to get them, I would like to be kept informed of any sort of change like that – just to make sure we don't see the same potential problem developing and give conflicting orders in the future."

"A sensible precaution," the other goblin agreed with a nod before gesturing for Barchoke to lead the way onward.

In their moment of Gringotts political maneuvering they had lost the chance to immediately press Delacour on the agreement and the assault for when they got to him he was already talking to the broom-carrying wizard.

"–Actually, sir, security seemed remarkably lax," the wind-blown wizard said in response to something which caused an immediate spike in Barchoke's agitation.

_'__How dare he say that goblins are lax!'_ he seethed before his mind caught up to remind him that these were the enemy goblins that the wizard was talking about.

"The Anti-Apparition Field is in place though," the wizard continued. "As are the back-up Muggle-Repelling Charms and Unplottability Wards. Emergency portkeys will still work if they're needed but I don't think it'll come to that."

"Good," Barchoke said breaking into the conversation, only to find himself caught out when the humans turned to look at him. "Your men do good work," he reiterated to Delacour, uncomfortable dealing with humans that he wasn't in a position of authority over. Committed to charging ahead anyway, he handed over the agreement with the Ministry. "Once we get your recognition on this, and that wardstone suppressed, it looks like we'll be ready to go," he finished pleasantly.

Delacour dismissed the reporting wizard with a wave and reached into the breast pocket of his robes to produce a pair of pince-nez glasses. The troublesome Frenchman seemed to take an extra-long time in perusing the document, undoubtedly to impress upon them the independence of his position more than anything else. He took so long that Bankor reached into his pocket to check the time before the wizard was finished.

"Eet seems as zough everything is een order," the Deputy Inspector General said, reaching into another pocket to produce his own official seal and placing the first copy onto the wardstone, presumably to use it like a desk for stamping. "Eet is good to see ze Eenglish Ministry being so accommodating een zis."

"We can only hope that one day," Bankor said with a smooth smile. "Cooperation between peoples here will be the norm rather than the exception – as it is in the I.C.W."

With a half-smile of his own, Delacour tipped his seal in a silly kind of faux salute before bringing it down on the wardstone. From in front of them came the sound of bones being snapped and the wizard jumped back in alarm. Along the serpentine line of runic forms breaks were forming of their own accord and the wardstone itself began to crumble.

"What deed I do?" Jean-Olivier asked with an ashen face as the stone tumbled down and the glasses fell from his nose. "What deed I do?"

"Does this mean that–?" Barchoke began to ask only to be interrupted himself.

_Aaarrrrrrooooooooooooooo!_ a reedy horn of a deep mine distress call cried out in the distance. It could only have come from the Tower. _Aaarrrrrrooooooooooooooo!_ it called again.

"Do it!" he ordered Bankor in no little amount of panic; they couldn't allow the enemy time to prepare their defenses. "Now!"

The Little Minister fumbled with his coat until a bent muggle thing fell out of it. Stooping to pick it up, Bankor put his finger through a hole, pointed whatever it was at the sky, and activated the device. With a sizzling shrieking sound something shot out of the end and arced a hundred feet into the air, well above where the top of the bank would be if it were here, before a tiny _pop!_ sounded and the projectile hissed and glowed a violent red against the sky.

In the distance Barchoke could faintly hear the distress call sound again and he knew that there would be an accompanying charge as Overseer Gutripper led the guards out of their hiding places and across the narrow strip of land that separated the island they were on to Flamel's Compound. Where he stood all those sounds were drowned out by the beating of large leathery wings that descended from the overcast sky. Goblin warriors on dragon mounts! It was an inspiring sight and made all the more so as the Deputy Inspector General's face took on a greenish hue as they flew overhead to blot out the sun.

"Make sure he stamps those other forms," Barchoke told Bankor as he snatched the one from Delacour's hand. "They better not kill everyone before I get there!" he cackled as he raced down the magically made pathway to join the streaming throng below.

.o0O0o.

_Aaarrroooooooo! Aaarrroooooooo! Aaarrrrrrooooooooooooooo!_

The sentries' panicked horns cried out again and again, summoning the rear guard forces that would protect the rest of them as they made ready to leave. Outside, shouted orders were given that no one would follow in order to prepare defenses that no one would need if all went according to plan. Appearances had to be maintained though or all would be lost; or so the wizard had said.

Razorwhip cursed as he pulled a pair of scared children out of their beds and hurried down to the storeroom at the guard tower's base. The fact that they were his children made their squalling barely bearable but their true worth today came from them guaranteeing his own spot in the new life to come. He wished he knew more about what this new life would bring but whatever it was it had to be better than what they were leaving behind: a cold, wet rock in the middle of an endless sea with nothing to do but wait for an enemy that had never come.

Different enemies were coming now though and part of him wanted to face them rather than flee. Goblin versus goblin in a struggle to the death where both sides were trained to fight rather than the one-sided confrontations between Enforcers and the denizens of Below that he had heard stories of. Even if there was no way they could win it would be a glorious battle and one to tell their children about. But for that to happen though some of them would have to live through the day and have children to carry on the tale, and for that they'd have to flee.

_"__DRAGONS!"_ someone shouted down from above before a door slammed shut and a crackling rumble and muffled cries signaled the deaths at the top of the guard tower. His mewling children went silent as a heavy weight landed on the roof and moments later the door up above started to be broken in as heavy beats of leathery wings drew further and further away.

Razorwhip shouldered into the stuffed storeroom as the sound of weapons striking weapons sounded outside. As he made his way through the rings of goblins kneeling on the floor to reach the clutch of children in the center another goblin left the outer ring to lower the latch and block the door. Depositing his children with the others on top of the gathered food, clothing, and other resources they'd need in their new life he shot a look at the female that birthed them, a look she returned. He didn't know what she was so irritated about; she had forgotten the brats too.

_"__Places!"_ Tower Captain Flintstrike ordered and Razorwhip hurried to the outer ring to find an open spot on the magical lines the wizard had scrawled on the floor the night before.

Drawing his weapon long enough to slice the palm of his hand, he knelt down to press the oozing blood to the wizarding markings like all the others around him and looked to the door as he felt part of his strength flow out of him. This would be their salvation and revenge, their contribution to the battle no one expected them to win, for goblins had a power of their own. When obliteration was the goal, survival was victory.

When the wizard had given them his warning he had also offered them this new life, for he said he'd never abandon his friends. Facing the might of Gringotts and their wizarding allies, they had snatched this gift faster than any objection could be raised. After all, if the fool wanted to pay them more for what they had already done, why should they turn it down?

The sound of breaking doors and tramping boots echoed through the tower as the ones that landed above stormed through the upper levels to root out any defenders and Razorwhip felt the draining feeling swell in response and the hairs on his arms prickled as a new feeling encompassed him. As uneasy as some were in trusting any wizard with so much, it wasn't like they hadn't trusted them before. Their families had served here for a generation or more and Flamel had even known some of them by name. If he chose to abandon them to their own devices then they had every right to find someone else to profit off of.

Nervous muttering broke out as the tromp of their boots came ever closer.

_"__Hold!"_ Flintstrike cried as the new energetic feeling began to swell.

_"__Hold!"_ he cried again as they began to beat at the door to the storeroom and the air seemed to crackle with energy as the huddled children began to cry again.

This was it, Razorwhip knew. That door would open and power they had would be unleashed, transporting them to safety and scouring their enemies from their former home so that no one could follow them. He wondered what their new life would be like and where they would be; somewhere warm he hoped: a lush, fat land ripe for the taking.

More pounding on the door saw it begin to break apart and in no time it was wrenched aside.

_"__NOW!"_ Flintstrike cried before the air pulsed in a white-hot flash.

.o0O0o.

The ring of metal against metal and the cries of the defenders' horns carried back to him. Heedless of any danger from whip-vine-things Barchoke dashed the plants aside so he could get a better look before rushing down the winding dirt path to the compound. The defenders seemed to be making good use of the natural bottleneck the thin strip of land provided to slow the advance of their main force but it did nothing to halt the advance from the air.

Winding his way down the dirt path, and trying desperately to keep his feet from running away on him and landing face down in the dirt, he saw the first dragon scour the top of one of the fat guard towers with a gout of flame before landing. Movement on then red dragon's back told of the riders' quick dismount before the Dragonhandlers took flight again.

_'__So far, so good,_' he thought. Opening up multiple fronts for them to fight on should help them overwhelm the tiny speck of an island.

Pausing by the final bend, Barchoke wondered how close to the actual fighting it was prudent to get. Gotts knew he was no warrior and if he tried to look like one it would only erode what authority he had, and without that he was just a goblin in a suit; they had armor on. He had to look like he was in charge, because he supposedly was, but mostly because all of this had been his fault. Well, it was Dumbledore's fault really, him and Flamel for breaking that ancient agreement, but it had been him that had notified them all of the breach so this had to go well.

Barchoke did what he could to brush the dirt off his pants leg and straighten his suit.

Soon a second dragon laden with troops swooped in and landed heavily on another guard tower; the lack of scouring flame said the defenders there had chosen to barricade themselves inside rather than face a flaming wave of death. As the riders dismounted, the dragon's wings spread wide and it roared to the heavens as if exalting in the excitement of battle. The roar was followed by a swell of noise as the guards surged forward, finally breaking through the defender's front line of defense.

_'__Going well,_' Barchoke thought to himself as he tucked his tie back where it was supposed to be and ran a hand over his shaven head. _'We'll have the compound in no time._'

With the sound of a thousand cracks of thunder all in one place, the first guard tower exploded! Huge chunks of rock went flying in all directions as the base of the squat tower blew outward in a shower of debris. The pale blue dragon on the second tower took to the sky as rubble rained down on attacker and defender alike while what remained of the top of the tower collapsed on whatever remained at the base.

Barchoke looked on in stunned silence. He didn't know they could do that! Was that wizarding magic, muggle devices, or something all their own? The forces pushing their way into the compound had freed up space on the far side of the strip of land he needed to cross but he wasn't sure he wanted to venture that far out yet in case–

The second tower exploded with the same destructive blast as the first, sending even more chunks of debris down on the invaders. Running steps to his right spooked him so that Barchoke grabbed the dagger from his breast pocket and turned to defend himself. It was with a huge sigh of relief that Bankor and Delacour came shambling to a stop not far away, leading a small cadre of equally surprised wizards.

"What was zat?" the pudgy I.C.W wizard asked.

"That wasn't some kind of magic?" Bankor asked in reply as Barchoke tried to grasp what had just happened.

"None zat I know," he replied tugging the point of his beard.

"We've – we've got to find out what that was," Barchoke said more to himself than anyone else. "I trust you don't object to fighting _now?"_ he asked, remembering the Frenchman's determined refusal to take part in any of the fighting itself.

"We are not Peacekeepers," Delacour objected. "We are eenvestigators, researchers."

"There'll be nothing left to research if they blow it all up and bury it in rubble!" he snapped. "The least you can do is look to the injured and order them to stop landing on buildings!"

"I'm not flying with those _things_ in the air!" the wind-blown wizard from before said aghast.

"Then what good are you?!" he yelled before turning to charge to the compound.

The run along the narrow strip of land had to be as long as running along the back corridor of Gringotts back and forth three times over but he barely noticed it, save the time he slipped on a pool of blood when he was part of the way across. He had to get through to Gutripper to order them to wave off the other dragons before any other buildings exploded. Guards could be replaced but mature adult dragons trained to respond to clankers and willing to take goblins on their backs were not so easy to come by!

_'__No, no, no, no, no, No, NO!'_ Barchoke screamed to himself as he saw the greatest black beast of them all fly in from the right and he huffed and puffed himself on to all the speed his legs could muster.

Their forces seemed more wary now, standing around and not eager to take chances after the surprises they've encountered but there were only three buildings left for the Beast to land on: the barracks, the armory, and the Tower itself. If one of them were to blow with a dragon on it… the expense was too horrible to think about. As he got closer he saw some of the guards waving to the incoming team, but whether to wave it off or direct it somewhere Barchoke had no idea.

_'__Why didn't we think of some way to order them away?!'_ he berated himself. _'Hand signals, flags, even those fizzy muggle sky lighting things would've been better than nothing!'_

The Beast, the biggest bull dragon Gringotts had, landed with a heavy _thump_ on the barracks roof and what had to be a good two dozen guards sprang from its back.

"Go! Move! FLY!" Barchoke yelled up at them though he knew he was too far from them for them to hear. This had to be some horrible nightmare. "Make way, make way!" he cried, beginning to push through the press of goblins between him and the compound.

Barchoke felt a bit of relief when the Beast took flight again. Realizing that he still had his dagger in his hand he quickly moved to put it back in his inside pocket lest he accidentally stab someone and get himself into even more trouble. He put the Ministry agreement he had in there as well for safekeeping. Just as he got to the front of the pack another dragon landed directly in front of the barracks.

"Oh Gotts, no," he said numbly as the mottled brown dragon inhaled and the riders slipped off its back.

The searing gout of flame blew the barracks doors off its hinges and presumably kept going. An instant later a third blast ripped apart a good deal of what remained, though it seemed the destructive force was mostly directed up rather than out. Chunks of masonry, broken beams, and even some goblins were thrown into the air as the barracks blew.

The dragon gave an indignant snarl, whipping its long neck and tail in a frustrated display at all the light and noise that sent several guards flying. One of the Dragonhandlers worked the clankers hard to get it under control as the rubble started raining down and the guards protected themselves as best they could. If they were going to fight on the surface more often, something to protect themselves from things like this would definitely be needed. With footfalls like the sound of a cave-in and buffeting wind the likes he's never known, the dragon stumbled forward before clumsily taking to the air again.

It was then that Barchoke realized that the fighting outside had ended and he wondered what they were waiting on. Seeing Gutripper off to the left, he started to make his way over to him. Before he got there though something fell from the sky, bounced and rolled from the armory's roof to splat down not twenty feet away. Several guards had their weapons trained on it before either one of them got close. It was beaten and bloody, but the fallen thing was definitely a goblin. It was even wearing a coat their miners wore.

"You think that's one of theirs or one of ours?" he asked Gutripper, thinking it possible whoever it was could've fallen from the fifth dragon they'd brought.

The other Overseer was saved from answering when the fallen goblin himself started moving.

"Flight Team Leader... Oreshaft, reporting... sir," it said as it slowly picked itself up off the ground and Gutripper motioned the surrounding guards to stay their weapons. "I took command when Squad Leader Ragnan... couldn't keep his seat."

"Well then, _Team Leader,_" Gutripper said with a malicious grin, eyeing the high-flying goblin before gesturing to the barracks' husk. "You'd best look for the rest of your team."

With a brief murmur of discontent the long line of goblins gave way to I.C.W. wizards, led by Delacour and Bankor, who cautiously started looking about the devastation.

"Check with those wizards first to see if they can patch you up," Barchoke said to him as a small group of guards came trotting out of the armory towards them. "And try to get some of them to help you."

The approaching guards saluted them when they came to a halt, eyeing the bloody goblin as he shambled away.

"The armory is secure," one of them said, its eyes flickering back and forth between him and Gutripper as if uncertain who to address. The other must have sent a squad to scout it before he arrived, he was relieved to see.

"Any prisoners?" Barchoke asked causing both the new group of goblins and Gutripper himself to look at him questioningly, though the other Overseer's eye carried more than a strong hint of: _'Don't undermine me in front of my Enforcers!'_ "Learning how they destroyed these buildings could be a great weapon to have," he said delicately, purposely not looking in Gutripper's direction.

"Yes, who has prisoners? Bring them forward!" Gutripper called to the surrounding goblins, which quickly began looking at everyone else out of the corner of their eyes and backing off a bit.

Barchoke hated the sound of that silence for it was the sound of losing opportunities that might never come again, of accusations of cover-up, and of being unable to definitively say who was behind all of this rolled into one.

"DID I TELL YOU TO KILL THEM ALL?!" Overseer Gutripper roared. "Secure the Compound! Search everywhere!" he commanded, sending the guards scattering faster than Barchoke thought possible. "Check the rubble! Check the dead! There has to be someone that we didn't kill!"

Barchoke ran a hand over his head; it was a rather soothing motion most of the time but it didn't help that much since what he really wanted to do was have them all flogged. At least when he looked over to the wizarding bunch he saw a knot of them going over to help root through one of the guard towers, so that was something at least. Bankor made his way over to them as two squads entered the Tower itself.

"Do you really think the Tower is safe?" he asked gesturing to the large building in question.

"We'll know in a minute," Barchoke replied wary of just how many large chunks of rock could go flying if the thing did blow like the others.

He gave Bankor a peculiar look when he drew a pocket watch out from inside of his bulky coat to actually time the squads that went in.

"Eet would 'ave to be very Dark Magic to do something like zat," Delacour was saying to an older wizard as he moved to join them. "Eet is the only zing I can zink of to explain eet."

"I thought you said you didn't know what it was," Barchoke said with a look.

"I do not 'ave to know 'ow to do eet to know zat eet is Dark Magic," the human said mildly affronted.

"Out of curiosity," Bankor interjected, naturally inserting himself to moderate the conversation. "What precisely is the difference between Dark Magic and normal magic?"

"Eet–," Delacour stammered, seeming at a loss at how to explain the difference. "Eet is Dark."

He saw Bankor look over to him with a curious look as if even the normally ingratiating goblin couldn't think of a diplomatic way of saying that didn't explain anything at all.

"Well that certainly puts everything into its proper context," Barchoke said with a professional smile, before turning to Gutripper to roll his eyes.

"That's one minute!" Bankor announced, snapping his pocket watch shut and tucking it back into his coat.

Seeing as nothing had exploded for a while everyone seemed to have come to the conclusion that it was probably as safe as things were likely to get and Barchoke felt the uncomfortable weight of leadership settle on him. There was only so much he could order other people to do before he had to do things himself. He tried to exude a sense of certainty and authority as he led them across the compound's courtyard into the large white tower but he didn't know how well he managed to pull it off.

The small, rounded entry hall was made from a pale greenish limestone and on the floor was inlaid a depiction of a darker green prancing lion biting the sun and sending drops of red blood flying everywhere.

_'__Is that jade?'_ Barchoke asked himself as he bent over to examine it. _'Just how much were we spending on this guy?'_

"I like ze archway," Delacour said indicating the carved space above the small double doors to the main chamber. "Very eentrocate. I wonder if eet means anything."

"I hesitate to remind you that there is still a witch and wizard that're unaccounted for," Bankor said in his tentative way. "They could be anywhere."

Barchoke felt his stomach do a flip. He had thought the Flamels would be dead, it hadn't occurred to him to think they might still be alive. Delacour and his older companion drew their wands as they moved into the chamber, though if they cast any spells he didn't know. Gutripper drew his weapons as well and kept his good eye peeled. Barchoke was left wishing to he had the added protection that the other Overseer's armor provided; even Bankor's bulky coat was better than the soiled suit he had on.

The second room seemed to be a mess hall of some kind, and still messy from a recent feast. The large tables and benches that dominated the room were covered by discarded food, dirty dishes, and overturned goblets. The table at the far side of the room had two throne-like chairs behind it; one with the sun at the top and draped in red, the other with the moon and draped in white. The motif was repeated in a mural on the wall behind them, this one showing two humans with crowns on their heads.

_"__C'est magnifique!"_ Delacour breathed gazing upwards, drawing everyone else's attention there.

Supported by seven black columns spaced around the hall, the ceiling above them had a large black sun that somehow still gave off light rather than darkness and neither heat nor cold. Growing more unnerved by the minute Barchoke wanted to hurry everyone along, the only problem was that he didn't know where to go. There were two doors out of the room on opposite sides, thankfully one of their goblins exited the one on the right and hurried over to them.

"Kitchen, laundry, pantry, and cistern are secure, Overseers," the Squad Leader reported with a salute. "No prisoners to report though I ordered a more thorough inspection to make sure there are no secret passages or bolt holes. I've also taken the liberty to start cataloging what's still here."

"Good," Barchoke said, pleased there was someone around that could think for themselves. "Wait – What do you mean 'what's still here'?"

"The pantry and laundry are in a rather rough state," the other goblin said carefully. "It was the same in the armory before. There's not anything near what I'd expect to find with so many goblins stationed here."

"We've been robbed!" Barchoke said crossly, wishing the renegade goblins were alive again so he could have them all flogged.

"Eef zey 'ave stolen supplies," Delacour gasped. "Nichola Flamel, 'e may 'ave escaped! We must find 'im!" the wizard said hurrying for the other door Barchoke and the other wizard following close behind.

"Sirs!" another goblin called from the entryway behind them, causing Barchoke to stop. "We found the other goblins that were stationed here. You... might want to look at this," he said oddly.

"I've got to keep an eye on Delacour," he said to the others as he turned back towards the door. He didn't want the I.C.W. to make off with anything they didn't know they had yet; surely one of them would handle whatever it was.

The door led to a staircase that made its way up around the tower. He ignored the many windows and the unending view of the sea as he made his way up and tried to divert himself from trying to calculate the value of the carvings in the niches he passed. The staircase had arced around so much that he entered the second floor on the opposite side of the tower from where he started from and when he passed through into the chalk white chamber it was to find a very large... Well, he wasn't sure what it was, but there were a lot of glass things, work spaces, and small furnaces to generate heat.

"Zis laboratory is eenormous," Delacour cooed appreciatively as Barchoke made his way over, though both wizards still scanned the room with their wands out. "I 'ave never seen ze like; and so many eentrists."

"That's very interesting," he said noncommittally.

"What is eenteresting is over zere," the human said gesturing to the windows by the far wall where a small group of preserved animals were on display. "Crow, peacock, swan, phoenix; I like what 'e did zere. I did not even know you could stuff a phoenix," he smiled.

Barchoke was about to reply when the supposedly stuffed phoenix turned to look at them. And before either of them could speak it stretched its wings, and with a cry, disappeared in a flash.

"Zat is even more eencredible," Delacour said as he recovered from the latest shock, though Barchoke was more interested in the trotting footfalls coming from the door on the other side of the room.

A guard looked inside, and seeing him, came in to make a report.

"Sir, you might want to come with me," he said nebulously after a quick salute.

"Why, what is it?" Barchoke asked suspiciously at the guard's seeming unwillingness to talk.

"Nichola Flamel, deed you find 'im?" the Frenchman asked.

"We think so, sir," the guard said to him uncertainly. "But we can't be sure."

Getting more frustrated by the growing reluctance of the guards, Barchoke wondered why no one would come out with a definite answer.

_'__Then again,_' he thought to himself as his brain kicked back in. _'After Gutripper's angry display outside I doubt I'd be eager to give any news either, especially bad news. Those dragons are awfully close, bound to be hungry by now, and plenty of other goblins have died already._'

"Lead the way," he told the guard instead of chastising him.

"Continue your search," Delacour said to the older wizard as he followed along behind them as they left the room. "Eef ze Stone is 'ere, find eet."

Up another curved staircase they went with another view of even more sea and sky. It was beautiful in a way but Barchoke could see why Flamel would have wanted something else to look at after so many centuries. At the next landing there was not only the standard doorway he'd been expecting to see but also a smaller door facing them. The main door looked to lead to some kind of red marbled records department while the other seemed to have been covered by a painting and swung out on a hinge to serve as a secret passage.

"It's faster this way, sir," the guard explained as he led them through to yet another curving stairway.

Up again they went, and Barchoke was beginning to feel the burn of today's activity in his legs. He wasn't about to show weakness in front of both wizard and goblin alike so he had no choice but to keep going. The one consolation was that this stairway showed a view of the courtyard and the main island, so he supposed that was something. At the top of the stairway they were led through another hidden door to arrive at another landing to even more stairs.

"How many more levels are there in this place?" he said exasperatedly.

"The next level is open to the sky," their guard escort replied. "It looked to be used to spot incoming airborne assaults."

"Ah!" Delacour cried happily. "I 'ave 'eard tell of an Observatory."

"We think Flamel is through here," their goblin guide said, leading the way into the main area of that level.

This level didn't seem to be particularly colorful, Barchoke was glad to see. Regardless of how much expense had gone into constructing this tower though it was theirs now so they could do with it what they pleased. Unlike the ones before, this level seemed to be split up into several smaller rooms. All the doors but one were open and that one had guards on it; the rest looked to be washrooms and places to sleep. Could they have really captured the Flamels?

He adopted a stern expression as the guards moved aside, surely the guards wouldn't have left the Flamels in possession of their wands or any other weapons, or so he kept telling himself. Pushing open the door he was repulsed at what he found. In an opulent bed with silk sheets lay two desiccated human skeletons; one of them was sitting up and had been turned to grin at him, its empty eyes staring into his soul.

"What is 'e 'olding?" Delacour asked, holding his hand over his mouth and nose as if there were actually a smell to ward off.

He looked away from the staring skull with its long, white wispy hair to the bony hand that held a small roll of parchment. Disliking every step he took, Barchoke carefully crept to the side of the bed, half-afraid the bodies might suddenly lurch forward to grab him. Thankfully the skull's stare stayed on Delacour so as he reached for the parchment he didn't have to contend with that eerie look.

Parchment in hand, Barchoke hurried back into the hallway. The deathly gaze safely behind the door again Barchoke handed the scroll to Delacour; he didn't think he was in any state to read right now.

"You read it," he said with a wave. "What does it say?"

The Frenchman took out his pair of pince-nez again before unrolling the note.

"Ze part of life we really leeve is small," he read. "For all ze rest of eexistence is not life, but merely time."

Delacour handed him back the note.

"Not something I would want on my tombstone," the human said somberly as he took off his eyeglasses. "But I deed not leeve so long as 'im."

Barchoke nodded as he put the put the note into one of his pockets. He was all for living as long as he could, but what was the point if you were a prisoner? Even an expensive cage is still a cage. It was surprising that Flamel hadn't thrown himself off the top of the tower decades ago... If that was really him.

"You I.C.W. types have some way get blood from a corpse like that?" he asked Delacour, who seemed surprised by the question for some reason. "We should have something on file to compare it with to make sure that's really–"

_Aaarrrrrrooooooooooooooo!_ a faint reedy note from elsewhere caught his attention. None of the guards they had with them had been given horns like that, so why was one being used? Darting into one of the empty sleeping quarters and running to the window, Barchoke hoped to catch a glimpse of what was going on in the courtyard below; he happened to be in luck.

Far below him he could see figures moving about, some in positions around the wall of the compound and others leaving the ruins of the guard towers to take defensible positions. Following the pointed gestures Barchoke scanned the narrow strip of land across to the main island and up the winding path until he found what everyone had to be pointing at. Approaching at a quick and steady pace were six figures, most of them in official-looking Ministry robes, with a short, squat figure in the lead. That one had pink wrapped around it like a banner of war.

Stalking back to the hallway he did his professional duty.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to leave you for a while; I'm sure you understand," Barchoke told Delacour with a forced smile. "Please escort the Deputy Inspector General as he continues his search. I will return as soon as I'm able," he said to the guard that had accompanied them with an implication that he should keep the man from doing anything he may not want him to do until then.

"I zink I really should 'ave a look at zis Observatory I've 'eard so much about," he heard Delacour say as he left through the door he'd come in from.

The passage to the staircase down was blocked off by a painting of a human with a conjoined pair of pointy things that he was poking circles with. Pulling the painting on neither side saw it budge an inch though it did at least get the man's attention.

"Open!" he ordered it having no time to waste.

"Not with an attitude like that, I won't," the funny-hatted human chided, going back to his work.

_"__Now!"_ Barchoke cried, pulling out his dagger and thrusting it at the man's face.

The human held up his hands and fell over, as if either would protect the painting. It did swing open though which at least bought the portrait a little more time. As he darted through Barchoke heard the human say to himself, "These new guests are far too rude for my tastes."

Running down the wide curving stairway was a lot easier on the legs than running up it and before he knew it he was barreling through the backside of another secret door.

"Halt!" someone said to his left as he exited, causing him to turn with his dagger out in front of him. "Oh! Apologies, Overseer," a surprised guard said, sliding his weapon back into its sheath and giving the open portrait a glance. "We didn't expect to see you," the goblin said, implying that the other guard sharing the duty to protect the unexplored red room was just as guilty of being uninformed as he was but at least he had tried to stop an intruder.

"Find someone to relieve you," Barchoke said to the guard who spoke, "then the two of you start taking these portraits off the walls and get the passageways open. You're free to threaten them if you have to, and then stick them in the unused rooms one level up for now. Now get to it," he finished with a wave before continuing down the stairs.

He took it a bit more slowly from there on and all this effort gave him a new appreciation for the flip-lift because even when it flipped and corkscrewed you around it was still faster than taking a hundred steps just to move to another floor. The "laboratory" on the next level was a hive of activity since it seemed that all the I.C.W. wizards were content to coo about everything there instead of going any higher. A simple 'open or die' was enough to convince the next portrait to open and before he knew it he was back in the mess hall again.

"You're in no position to give orders here, _human,_" he heard Gutripper say scornfully as he passed over the jade lion. The sound made him grip his dagger a little more tightly as he left the Tower. "This is goblin land and we're not going anywhere."

"It seems that you've greatly overestimated your position," Madam Umbridge said drawing herself up as far as her diminutive height and five bulky Ministry guards would allow. "This land and everything it contains belongs to the Ministry of Magic and we mean to press our rights to it now," she pronounced, holding up some small decree as if that's all it'd take to sway them. "You have no business here, goblin."

"I think that you'll find–," Bankor said diplomatically taking a folded parchment from his bulky coat.

"–That he's absolutely right," Barchoke cut in with a look to the other Overseers as he walked into the courtyard. This was not the time for tentative diplomacy or blind violence, it was time to let the Ministry know exactly how things were going to be from here on out.

"Mister Barfchoke," the odious woman said with a none too pleasant look on her ugly face as her finger whipped around to point at Gutripper. "I advise you to take your dog here in hand or I shall have him put down."

The wizards around the ignorant woman seemed to sense that this was the worst thing she could possibly say and instead of pointing their wands at the Overseer in question they positioned themselves to best defend their small cluster of unwanted intruders. And as for the 'dog' in question he drew his sword and dagger and stared at her with a rictus grin as if he'd relish the challenge of cutting his way through them in an all-out assault. Barchoke didn't know about her but that should've been enough to make even the corpse of Flamel fearful.

"The only thing I will be doing to our fine Overseer here," he answered in ringing tones so that it would carry to as many ears as possible. "Is commend him for all the good work he's done for Gringotts today, _and_ for resisting the urge to gut you where you stand!" Barchoke chanced a brief look at the guards around the courtyard, trying to gauge their willingness not to fight.

"You seem a bit behind the times, Madam Umbridge, so allow me to explain," he continued, hoping to show that there was more than one way to deal with opposition. "Before we raided this compound both the Ministry and the International Confederation of Wizards had acknowledged our rights to everything you've just tried to claim. Overseer Bankor, show her, if you will."

Alone out the entire courtyard Bankor actually seemed comfortable walking up to the surly gang of wand wielding wackos, at least until she snatched the parchment out of his hands. After that he made no attempt to hide his dislike of her as he backed away again, although she was more concerned with disdainfully reading the agreement than registering the slight.

"This is preposterous!" the frog-faced woman said before she was even halfway through with it. "This is an obvious forgery and we refuse to acknowledge it! Even daring to do this is tantamount to sedition and treason!"

"That's the Ministry's own seal and I assure you this has been perfectly legal, so the one being treasonous here is _you!"_ Barchoke swatted back at her. "If you doubt your own Ministry, check your decree if you doubt the seal – if yours even has one," he jeered. "That stamp has been acknowledged by the visiting Deputy Inspector General of the I.C.W. himself which means that this territory is internationally known as the sovereign domain of the Goblin Nation, and no Minister of Magic or jumped-up janitor's daughter like _you_ can change that!" he finished, pointing his dagger at her to emphasize his point.

The cheer that rose up from those words lifted his heart and put a smile on his face. This was the fire that had been missing from the goblin people for far too long, the pride that'd been squelched by the Humbling. They had protected their bank for a thousand years but all they'd been doing was being the warden of their own prison while what they truly wanted was the pride that came from having a place to call their home.

After all, you could guard a bank but you fought for home. That was what they had always been doing, Barchoke knew that now. All those conflicts with the Ministry were their attempts to fight back against being excluded and shoved aside, to force their inclusion, to make the humans treat them the same as everyone else. It had never worked though because the Ministry had never wanted them.

_'__This time the leverage is on our side,_' he thought to himself. _'They'll have to deal with us on our terms now._'

The only way Umbridge looked capable of dealing with anything was to imitate a guard tower and explode. Her eyes were wide, her jowls were quivering, and her face was a blotchy puce.

"I am _Senior Undersecretary_ to the Minister of Magic, Dolores Jane Umbridge," the foul woman said as if anyone there didn't know. "And I demand that you submit to us at once! The Goblin Nation does not exist!" she cried.

"Then look to the skies, Senior Underling, and reevaluate the situation!" he cried in response. "You may have brought five wizards with you, but we brought five _dragons!"_ Barchoke shouted, pointing upwards and to the right.

The beat of leathery wings turned all eyes to the sky as the fifth and final dragon came in to land on the armory's roof. She wasn't as big as the Beast but she was big enough and her orange and gold coloring made her look like fire made flesh. Like the others that'd been flying for hours the goblins on her back jumped off quickly and she spread her wings to roar.

_'__Good Gotts!'_ he thought when he realized that he was now pointing directly at her. _'This couldn't have gone better if we had actually planned it!'_

As the temperamental she-dragon looked down at them Barchoke got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Planning was definitely something they needed to do more of, he decided as it quickly inhaled. Luckily for everyone involved the pilot had the good sense to pull back on the reins just in time for the stream of fire to go harmlessly into the air. He had to admit though that without the chance of death it may not have made such a glorious sight.

The look of Umbridge's colorless face as she stared up at the dragon that could've killed them all made him laugh. Her reaction didn't improve when the mottled brown descended to land on the narrow strip of land back to the island or when the great black Beast landed at the top of the winding dirt path, making the whole island look a bit smaller by comparison. With her mouth opening and closing noiselessly she clutched a pin on her pink cardigan, trying desperately to say something.

"E–e–e–emergency!" the toad finally managed to croak out in a strangled yelp and she disappeared in a swirl of color.

Seeing their enemy run in fear, most guards would've used this moment to attack – instead they cheered. Even to Barchoke it was hard not to feel like they'd won a victory against all of wizard kind right then. One of the wizards used the moment of shock to try and follow her lead, twirling around on one foot. The look on his face when nothing happened let his buddies know just how much shit they had managed to step in. Umbridge may have retreated to safety but she had left her flunkies behind, and they didn't have portkeys.

"Drop your wands and surrender and you won't be harmed," Barchoke called to them, a plan quickly forming in his head.

Standing up to the Ministry was fighting for their rights and that made taking these men into custody just something that needed to be done for everyone's safety. Using them as a bargaining chip in what was sure to come next was just the goblin thing to do while returning them unharmed would prove that they weren't monsters. Still, he'd need to get some of the other Overseers on board to take the heat off him, but looking at Bankor and Gutripper they both looked ready to agree to anything.

The wizards seemed to have been picked for their love of following orders rather than any magical prowess. Lacking anyone else to tell them what to do they shared a look and began to drop their wands.

"Wait!" Bankor said, hurriedly taking off his bulky coat and tossing is over to the wizards. "Put the wands in the inside pocket and leave it on the ground."

Barchoke looked at him curiously as he made his way over to him, only to have him dart out and scoot the coat back away from the wizards once the wands were inside.

"What was that about?" he asked in an undertone.

"Clause three of the Code of Wand Use: 'no non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.'" Bankor explained while dry-washing his hands. "Admittedly, one of the definitions of 'carry' is 'to convey or transport,' but they didn't specifically stipulate that such actions were a part of the ban and a single additional word would've sufficed to do so. Without that wiggle-room we'd have no way to transport these wands at all unless we bring humans in, and while our agreement with the Ministry stipulated who _owns_ the island it said nothing about sovereignty, so Ministerial laws like that may still hold."

"We can't wait for the Ministry to decide if their laws apply here or not," Barchoke said thinking furiously. "Our position has to be that this is an autonomous region, just like the areas below Gringotts are. That's the only way what we did is legal. What do you think?" he asked Gutripper as he joined them. "Keep these five downstairs until we can transfer them back to Gringotts?"

"Wouldn't it be safer to keep them here?" Bankor asked quietly but Gutripper was already shaking his head.

"This place is too new and there's more chance these I.C.W. types may want to free them," the other Overseer said, keeping his good eye on the prisoners. "If we keep them at Gringotts we can keep outsiders from knowing where they are."

"The Ministry's not going to like this," Bankor said uncertainly. "I trust you know what you're doing?" he asked Barchoke.

"Just showing them that we can't be pushed around anymore," Barchoke replied. "I'll explain the whole thing later to get your input but I need them kept together and completely unharmed for it to work. I won't have them saying we treated them badly; I trust you can do that?" he asked Gutripper.

The battle-hardened Overseer glanced at them both for a moment before nodding. It was with a sense of relief that he saw him motion for guards to attend him as he moved the captured wizards into the tower and ordered the rest to get back to work.

"I'm going to have to go back to the bank to get a handle on this," Barchoke said as he ran a hand across his scalp again. "Until then we're going to need someone to Oversee this place."

"You want me to handle this place?" Bankor asked, seeming to understand that he'd just been drafted away from his own department.

"At least for now, we can handle the long term arrangements later," he replied to Bankor as a thought occurred to him. "I'm going to need you to go up and find Delacour," he said, really glad to avoid going up all those stairs again. "Tell him what happened and how the Ministry's changed their mind about being cooperative. If Delacour wants to get to Dumbledore then it's probably already too late."

It wasn't until Bankor had run off dragging his coat along behind him and the she-dragon had left the armory that Barchoke noticed the rather large holes in his last plan. The goblins in charge of the dragons couldn't dismount without them being left free to go off on their own and with them wandering around it was going to be impossible to get back to the portkey arrival point to get out of here. He was pulled away from trying to plan around this by a guard from the ruined barracks.

"Sir, we found the third group of remains of the goblins that were stationed here," he said to him. "You might want to take a look."

Barchoke motioned him to lead the way hoping that when Delacour got down here and saw the same dragons blocking the path he did they could use his emergency portkey to get back to the bank. If not, this was going to be a really long day.

.o0O0o.

Henry Jameson was starting to think that being an auror was never going to measure up to the brochure. _'Adventure! Excitement! Fight against dark witches and wizards side-by-side with the heroes of the last war!'_ All that sounded great but they never once mentioned grouchy old trainers, paperwork, procedure, drills and homework, and all the other assorted nonsense that came along with it. He knew that he'd never be the 'go-to guy' just starting the third year of training but he'd thought it'd be more than sitting on his butt watching the fireplace.

Still, he supposed it wasn't all bad; it did give him something to wake up for every day, if in a roundabout way. His baby sisters, like everyone else that lived in Hogsmeade, had been brought up hearing about the great wizarding events of the past and great duels and epic battles were always favorites. Dumbledore versus Grindelwald, Death Eaters against Aurors, and even Harry Potter's defeat of You-Know-Who were told and retold again and again until no one really knew where the truth was in any of it; not that it really mattered to anyone.

All of that kind of changed when your 'great big brother' was one of the ones going out there to hunt down the bad guys though. Even after all this time they were pouting at him not to go, pulling on his arms to keep him from the floo, or latching onto his legs and sitting on his feet to try and keep him from moving. He was willing to bet that most of what kept them doing it was the fun of being dragged around the house by a lumbering giant that was more than ten years older than them so he was happy to keep it up as long as they were; kids didn't stay kids forever.

_'__I dunno, maybe I should just quit,_' he thought to himself, and not for the first time.

When he had joined there had been – three? No, four – others from his Hogwarts class that had done the same, though one had only lasted a week. It was the second one to leave that was a shame though since he was the one that Henry had known best, but for some reason after pushing him to do well in classes his mother turned right around to nag him into leaving the Auror Corps and take a nice, safe job somewhere else. Six N.E.W.T.s at Exceeds or above and he was selling Quidditch supplies, such a waste.

Now all of them were gone and in their place was the pleasantly pink paragon of perfect pulchritude that had even started showing him up on occasion. She had wicked skill, killer style, and a presence that was wrapped up in mystery. Plus she had this tendency to trip over her own feet that'd make her adorable if she ever let anyone close to her. She didn't have the social awkwardness that you expected from people who'd been taught at home though and too many things about her seemed familiar in some way he couldn't figure out.

Word around the office was that she was a metamorphmagus but in a year the only evidence he's seen were the times he'd picked on her enough to get her hair to change – which admittedly was too often for it to be coincidental. He kept doing it – well, because it was fun – but mainly because this theory he had that she was secretly several years older and was only pretending to be younger, and maybe if he picked on her enough she'd slip and let something show. Secretly being a D.M.L.E. officer that got bumped up to Auror would explain why she was so good, why Moody was so interested in her, why he let her be lax with paperwork, why she claimed to only be interested in older guys – everything.

The surname Tonks was anything but common but it sounded familiar somehow, so even being older she had to have a younger sister or something. It was impossible that he could've spent six years in Hogwarts and not remember a girl like her, with or without pink hair. Every time he thought along those lines though his mind wanted to picture this plain, mousy-haired, Hufflepuff geek that never drew attention to herself which was–

Excited murmurs drew Henry's attention away from his pumpkin juice as a violent swirl of pink appeared and someone fell to the floor in a _flump!_ He stood as other patrons went over to see who had been fool enough to portkey into the Leaky Cauldron. Unless you were someone who was licensed to make them just getting a portkey was difficult enough, even for some big and potentially Secrecy-breaking official business, so it wasn't like this could've been some sort of prank. Now that he thought of it, he was pretty sure portkeying into an inhabited area like this was illegal.

_'__Aw crap,_' he thought, taking a moment to finish his drink. _'That means everyone's going to look to me to arrest them or something. Maybe I can just bring them to Moody, tell him what happened, and let him deal with it. It's still gonna mean paperwork though._'

He got over to them just as they were getting the short woman up to her feet; she was the last person he was expecting.

"Madam Umbridge?" Henry asked confused as to why someone so close to the Minister would be portkeying anywhere, let alone here.

_"__GOBLINS!"_ she cried, clutching his robes and eyes wide in panic. "Go! Go!" Umbridge ordered while trying to get away from the hands of people that were keeping her steady. "Attack them! Kill them! Slaughter them all!"

Unable to believe what the woman was saying the people around her put up almost no resistance to her getting to the fireplace, least of all him. It wasn't until she disappeared in a flash of green fire to the cry of "The Ministry of Magic!" that everything became clear. In a dull sense of shock he said the first official sounding thing that came to mind.

"Everyone should please evacuate the building in an orderly fashion, and proceed home if it is safe to do so."

Vaguely Henry knew that he should say something reassuring but what that could be was beyond him. There was a large bubbling cauldron where his stomach should be and it seemed in real danger of spilling onto the floor. Instead, he made his way out of the back door and into the alleyway. He had to find Moody. He had to find Moody. Had to find Moody. Apologize for bumping into people. Walk faster. Had to find Moody. Go faster. Use brain.

Dolores Umbridge was no hero; she wouldn't charge to the rescue. That had to mean that the Ministry was safe, right? That felt better; better enough to keep moving. The alley seemed to be slightly moving, but people weren't running, so here had to be safe too. She was close to the Minister. Going to the Ministry meant she didn't come from the Ministry, and she hadn't been here, so she had to come from Hogsmeade. She came from Hogsmeade. The goblins had attacked Hogsmeade!

_Explosions had ripped apart Zonko's Joke Shop and the smell of dungbombs choked the street as Filibuster Fireworks continued to shoot off randomly into the air from the demolished store. The Three Broomsticks was a flaming pyre as the devastation continued to spread through the village. People had run for all the good it'd done them. Now they lay on the ground unmoving. Madam Rosmerta, the kids down the street, even his–_

People were dead and it was with watery eyes that Henry saw the one responsible for it. The dirty little goblin was sitting outside like this was Hogwarts and he had the day off of class. By what right was it sitting there looking bored while his world crumbled around him? By what right was it even alive?!

_'__Attack them! Kill them! Slaughter them all!'_ the order rang in his ears as he ran down the alley. Time seemed to slow when the goblin glanced up to see him racing towards it; its eyes bulged and it moved to close the big book in front of him, making it disappear. Henry didn't know when he had drawn his wand but didn't rightly care; that goblin was going to die.

Time lurched forward again as Henry's feet were ripped out from under him, sending his spell flying off course. He saw the whole alley twirl around before he landed hard on the cobblestone street. Looking upwards, he was just in time to see his spell slam into and knock open the bank's triple double doors and the goblin race inside as the nearby aurors erected their barricades.

_"__GET DOWN!"_ a gravelly voice yelled before a ripple of force shoved him and everyone else still in the alley aside.

Crammed face-first beside the door to a shop Henry felt and heard a roaring rush behind him. Struggling to turn around as fast as he could he saw the moving wall of fire that now split the alley down the middle. Grim-faced, Moody and Robards were struggling to keep it from going any further, somehow bending it right where he'd been a moment before and sending it streaming into the sky like a pillar.

As quickly as it had started the flame wall died away, followed quickly by a screeching, reverberating roar coming from the bank. A deafening silence filled the stillness afterwards for a moment before another roar came from the bank, this one containing words.

"THE DOORS WILL REMAIN SHUT!" a goblin called before the bank's doors closed again, this time to the sound of locks and physical barriers going into place.

"Robards, get those fires out," Moody ordered, sending the other man further up the alley where the flames of the fire wall had caused eaves and roofs to ignite. With his wand to his throat the senior auror said, "Attention, shoppers!" and his voice boomed out to everyone. "I need you all to finish what they're doing and evacuate through the Leaky Cauldron in a calm and orderly fashion. There is no need to be alarmed; Aurors are here for your protection."

In a kind of dull delirium Henry tried to stand, only to be shoved to his knees again as a panicked witch ran from the shop to dart down the alley. When he was halfway to standing he was yanked up the rest of the way and forced back against a wall. Mad-Eye did not look happy and his freakish blue eye darted around constantly.

"What the hell did you think you're doing?!" the old auror growled as a woman ran from the shop across the way with a child clutched to her and darted down the alley. As far down as he could see people were shuttering doors and running for the exits.

"M-Madam Uh-Umbridge," Henry said with a dry throat. "She said – she ordered–"

"The woman's an idiot!" the wild-eyed auror growled again. "I said to come find me, not to start a war."

"I-I did – I was," he stammered, tripping over his own words.

"Did it never occur to you that I knew more about what's going on than you?" Moody asked.

_'__Something more is going on?'_ Henry wondered as his knees began to buckle. _'Did this have nothing to do with Hogsmeade? Oh, Merlin! I almost killed that goblin._' His legs fell out from under him when Moody let him go. He was never going to be able to do his own banking again.

"Start using your bloody brain," the old auror said to him again before turning to hurry down the alley to check on things there.

_'__Merlin,_' Henry said to himself as he saw the people fleeing down the alley. _'What have I done? I want to go home. Please,_' he thought as the tears started to stream down his face and his hands tightened on his head. _'Please just let my family be safe._'

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** For the last five chapters I've managed to run the titles together. In case you didn't catch it they were: "When Pigs Fly," "It's a Day as Black as Night," "They're on the Backs of Dragons," "It's Not so Much Fun for the Pig," and "There's Always the Chance of Bacon." I don't think I can keep it up any longer and don't know if I'll ever do it again, but it was fun while it lasted.

Thanks for reading.


	28. Disenchanted

**AN****:** Since it's been so long since we've seen what's going on at the Burrow here's a brief synopsis: Luna's been welcomed back to the Burrow, Bill's stuck there now too, Harry didn't react well to learning about Sirius Black, Lichfield and Hermione came to some understanding about Mipsy, Ginny's decided to try to be a "sporty girl" to set herself apart, Dumbledore was backed into stepping down in the Wizengamot, and Umbridge made all hell break loose with the goblins.

Now, on with the show.

.o0O0o.

It was horrible, devastating, and completely unthinkable; the world as he knew it was coming to an end! How could anyone be expected to make such a monumental decision at a time like this? This was something that could change the course of history and define the world for generations to come. Why did he have to be the one in this position? Why was he always cursed in this way?

_'That's it! I can't do it!_' the man cried in his mind. _'I can't make this decision on my own._'

Darting into his pocket, he withdrew the largest coin and gave it a flip. Snatching it out of the air and peeking to see how it landed, the man discarded the result and did exactly what he had wanted to do anyway. He took the Curly Whirly _and_ the Drifter bar. No matter what his daughter thought you could never have too much chocolate.

Jauntily strolling down the convenience store's candy aisle towards the register, the man called Dan briefly thought about emulating the jive-talking fellow from the new Drifter commercial. In the end he decided that it was far too early in the morning to be that weird, even for him. Besides, it might come off as inadvertently racist, and that wouldn't do at all.

"Is that it?" Mr. Behind-The-Counter-Man asked as he rang up the purchases.

Out of habit the frizzy-haired dentist paused to glance at today's tabloids; one of them stuck out like a sore thumb. _'Aliens Ride Monsters Through London Skies,_' it said just as bold as you please above a grainy black-and-white photo that purported to show precisely that.

"Oh, I'm definitely buying this," he said as he picked it up.

Today looked like it was going to be interesting.

.o0O0o.

"Ginny, you get back here this instant! Ginny!" Bill heard his mother say as he stepped off the staircase.

He ran his fingers through his ponytail to make sure it was still attached before walking to the kitchen. Just because she'd overlooked saying anything last night when Charlie was here didn't mean she'd given up the fight. Peeking around the corner, Bill wondered how Ginny of all people had gotten on their mum's bad side.

"That is not ladylike!" their mother cried from the kitchen door a moment before a red blur flew off towards their make-shift Quidditch pitch.

Bill had to admit, he was rather impressed. He hadn't expected any of his siblings to be brave or stupid enough to do a runner on their mother but if there was anyone likely to get away with doing that it was Ginny. If the twins had tried they probably would've been Incarceroused and dragged back for another good talking-to. For all the downside, there were perks of being the only girl.

_'At least she's Gryffindor material,_' he thought with a bit of relief.

He'd been a bit worried that with Harry here it would've kicked that ambition of becoming Mrs. Ginny Potter up a notch or three and landed her in the snakes' den of Slytherin House. A silly fear when you really thought of it though. He'd been surprised that apple-polishing Percy hadn't ended up there and thought Ron had Hufflepuff yellow running through him for sure but they'd both made it in somehow. It might be a bit bumpy but Ginny was sure to be fine eventually.

"I'll never understand what's gotten into that girl," she said to herself as she came back inside.

"Did you ever understand her in the first place?" Bill grumbled under his breath as he made his way to the spot at the table where he'd left his work the night before.

"What's that supposed to mean?" his mother demanded, instantly making him feel like a child again. Hands on her hips and nostrils flaring, all she was missing was her wooden spoon to threaten him with.

_'Ah, crap,_' he thought, _'Her hearing's gotten better._' The last thing he wanted this morning was to have an awkward conversation with his mother. _'What's the worst that can happen?_' Bill asked himself as he put the table between them. _'She could throw me out, but I didn't want to stay here in the first place._' It seemed strangely freeing to know that you could say whatever you wanted, well, within reason.

"Well?" she prompted, her brow furrowing sharply.

"Well?" Bill replied as he thought of how to respond. "How well have you actually gotten to know her?"

"I gave birth to the girl," she said stubbornly. "I think I know my own daughter."

"I'm sure you do," Bill said placatingly. "And I'm sure it wouldn't be difficult at all for you to say what she's always wanted to be when she grows up," he said, casually tossing the easiest question he could think of at her before taking a look at the _Daily Prophet_.

"What do you mean?" his mother asked curiously, the slowest quaffle of a question imaginable bouncing right off her head to go through the center hoop.

The front page story about Dumbledore was disconcerting if true but it wasn't as disconcerting as that answer. While she'd had all seven of them bouncing around and running her ragged there had been some excuse for never getting a chance to get to know any one kid particularly well but once the twins had gone to Hogwarts that excuse dwindled really fast. And with Ron at Hogwarts as well she and Ginny would've been alone in the house more often than not. What had she been doing for the last three years?

"Ginny might be a girl, Mum, but she was never going to go straight from here to marriage with nothing in between. So before she got distracted by all this 'Boy-Who-Lived' rubbish," he said gesturing to the paper. "What did she want to do with her life?

"Well, she–" his mother began before quickly changing direction. "There's nothing wrong with marriage and family," she said defensively as she turned to march into the kitchen to get started on breakfast. Harry's little elf appeared ready to help only to be hurried off with an unhappy look and a shooing gesture.

"And there's more to life than that too," Bill said a bit too exasperatedly for so early in the morning as yesterday's conversation with Charlie crept back into his mind. "Look," he continued with a placating gesture as his mother threw food on the stove. "I love that you chased after your 'happily ever after' and got it so early – I wouldn't be here if you hadn't – but most girls don't go for that right away," he explained. "They want to work and feel productive first."

"Well then, Mr. I-Know-Everything-About-Women, you explain your sister then."

"Quidditch," Bill said as he finally sat down

_"Quidditch?_" she asked dumbfoundedly.

"Quidditch," he echoed with a nod.

"Why on earth would Ginny be interested in Quidditch?"

"Because not all girls are like you," Bill said sarcastically. "Just because you never had an interest in Quidditch doesn't mean she never would. Merlin, Mum, her first word was 'quaffle.'"

"You can't be sure of that," his mother said stubbornly. "Your father says it was 'waffle;' she loved them at the time."

"Either way, she has six brothers," he pressed. "Four of us have played for Gryffindor and there's a fifth one in training. Ginny's heard about the game since before she could speak, it's only natural for her to be interested in actually playing it. And there's a good future out there for her if she applies herself. She's wanted to be Gwenog Jones since the day she heard of her."

"You're talking about one of those Harper girls she screeches about, aren't you?" she asked him disapprovingly.

"Harpies, Mum, and yes," Bill clarified. "You do realize they've been an all-witch professional Quidditch team for the last eight hundred years or so, right?"

"They're a bunch of unwashed, unshaven hooligans, in my opinion," his mother said marching over and putting a large plate of food in front of him, in a mad attempt to shut him up by feeding him.

"You know who you sound like now, don't you?" he asked with a half-grin.

"Don't you dare compare me to Aunt Muriel," she said with an accusatory gesture.

"Well, if the tiara fits…" he said waving the bit of egg around at the end of his fork rather than complete the sentence.

"I am nothing like Muriel," she said crossly as she stalked back to the kitchen.

"And yet you were just chiding Ginny for not acting like a 'proper little Lady,'" Bill reminded her.

"It never hurts to learn a little decorum. You definitely could have used a bit more," his mother scolded. "Besides, you never know who you'll end up marrying and families with a certain level of social standing have expectations to meet."

"You mean families like Fawley, Selwyn, and – oh, I don't know – Potter?"

"Harry's–," his mother suddenly stopped to glance towards the living room before coming closer and continuing on in a lowered voice. "Harry's got himself a girlfriend, I'll have you know. So don't you go blaming me for that Boy-Who-Lived nonsense."

"Well, if I did you'd be in good company," he said with a smile, handing her the morning paper.

"Merlin's beard," she said disapprovingly as she scanned the article. "What happened to that man? _He_ wrote those blasted books? No wonder Ginny went loony; he probably jinxed them."

"I doubt it," Bill said though a mouthful of eggs and toast. If he was going to be thrown out he wasn't going to be hungry too.

"It would explain why those books kept disappearing and popping up again."

"No, I think you had a hand in that," he said continuing his honest appraisal of the situation. "You may not have brought them into the house but you certainly dropped a fresh load of dragon dung on top to make sure they were fertilized."

"When did this become 'Attack Your Mother Day'?" his mother said with a hurt look. "After everything we've done for you I don't appreciate it."

"You may not appreciate it now, Mum, but I am doing it out of love," Bill said honestly. "You always said that when you see something wrong the only way to fight it is with honesty, and ever since you stopped her from playing with Luna Ginny's gotten less and less like herself."

"And how does one have anything to do with the other?" she asked.

"Didn't you ever stop to think what kind of message you were sending to her?" he asked in return. "You took away her best friend when that girl's mother disagreed with you on whether a woman should work or not."

"It was what a _mother's_ most important responsibility was, not–"

"Explain the difference to an eight year old," Bill interrupted, not wanting his mother to twist her way around things. "What seemed to get across was 'be exactly the kind of girl I want you to be or I'll make your life miserable.' And what better way to do that then to become the girl from those books?"

An uncomfortable silence descended as she sat down across from him.

"Did she say that?" his mother asked somberly.

"Not–," he paused a moment to clear his throat. "Not in so many words, no," he said picking at his plate and avoiding her eye.

"You fight for so long to do what you want... and you still end up becoming your mother," she said with a shake of her head.

Bill peeked up at her as he uncomfortably nibbled his bacon. It was unusual for his mother to mention Grandmother Prewett at all, to the extent that none of them even knew her name. The most they had ever learned was gleaned from the barbs that Great-Aunt Muriel occasionally sent her way about being disowned for marrying father.

"It's not like I haven't tried to help," his mother said almost pleadingly. "Those books are finally gone and I've talked to her about putting that all behind her. I don't know what else to do."

"Well, getting Luna back here was a solid step forward," Bill said getting back to his food in earnest. "And Ginny running out of here is a good sign, though whether she's doing it because she wants to or out of spite is anyone's guess."

"As foreign as the game may be to me I hope it isn't spite," she said with a contemplative look. "If she goes down that road in twenty years she'll become my mother just like I did."

"Well, for better or worse she looks to you as a role model," he told his mother as he finished his breakfast. "So if you want her to change you're going to have to help her."

"Can you imagine me out there beating those quaffles about?" his mother asked, mangling the game mechanics and looking at him with the most ridiculous grin on her face. "Those old brooms probably wouldn't be able to lift me off the ground, even if I wanted to fly."

Bill chuckled at the thought.

"No, I don't think you have to go that far," he said finally. "It might do more harm than good. I just meant do what you can to support her and encourage her to blaze her own trail."

"Yes, well that's easier said than done," his mother said giving his hand a pat. She squeezed it as she stood and bent over the table to give him a kiss on the forehead. "You'd make such a great father," she said as she ruffled his hair and took his plate. "We just need to find a good girl for you."

"Wha–? Mum, no!" Bill stammered aghast. His mother, he concluded, was impossible. _'How can she not understand what I'm talking about?_'

"Ginny might be one thing," she said firmly, "but you boys need someone to take you in hand and keep you grounded."

_'Great!_' he thought astonishedly. _'I gave Ginny another perk and made my life worse!_'

"Find a girl for Charlie, he's the one that needs one, bad," Bill said hoping to divert her.

"Merlin knows I tried," she said as she took the plate to the sink. "The boy almost ran me out of Romania for my trouble. I only want to see him happy." After a moment she turned to look at him shrewdly. "This Hermione girl of Harry's," his mother said appraisingly. "You saw her at the Hopefuls meeting yesterday, didn't you? What'd you think of her?"

"Polite and businesslike," Bill said to impress on her how unlike her the girl was. "Very grounded; definitely one that has a nice long career ahead of her too. You can tell she cares for Harry though," he added at the end because when you came down to it that was the only thing that really mattered in his opinion.

"Yes, well," his mother said with a dismissive wave, "far be it for me to tell a girl how to run her life. As long as they're happy, that's up to them."

Bill stared at his mother open-mouthed for a moment trying to puzzle out how one person could house so many contradictory opinions in their head and still have it function. How was it that a pair of twelve year olds she barely knows could be free in her mind to come up with an equitable work/home arrangement on their own but as soon as it's her own family that she's talking about suddenly the girl's free to live her life as she chooses but the older boys are the ones in need of a minder? Part of him wanted to point out the inherent contradiction while the other side knew that if he did he'd ruin the tiny bit of progress he'd managed to make that day.

_'Gah!_' he inwardly raged before letting out a frustrated breath and running his fingers through his ponytail.

"You know, I really wish you'd let me cut that," his mother said with a critical look.

"I might find a girl who likes it this way," Bill said quickly, taking a stab at something new. "I've already had several mention how much they wished they had hair was like mine," he said truthfully.

His mother stopped to ponder that a bit.

"Yes, well… Different tastes I guess," she said finally.

_'That's it!_' Bill thought to himself as his head slumped to the table. _'I give up being a man; there's no way to win. Maybe if I find some way to turn myself into a woman she'll finally respect my opinion._'

"Oh, and Bill," she said from the kitchen, getting him to look up again. "What about this Penelope girl? What'd you think of her?"

He was saved from having to answer by a multitude of thunderous footsteps coming down the stairs. His mother gave him a shushing look as if paranoid about being overheard only to scurry over to snatch up the _Daily Prophet_ and stow it in a drawer before whipping out her wand for a flurry of frenzied wand-waving to speed her cooking. Merlin knew they couldn't let the kiddies know that anything weird was going on.

He'd have to send Charlie a curse through the mail for getting him stuck in this house again.

.o0O0o.

It had been far from a good night for Harry and definitely one of the longest. He hadn't gone back downstairs after Lichfield disappeared – he hadn't wanted to inflict his foul mood on everyone – and nothing he'd done had been able to help. With his appetite gone he hadn't touched his food and dwelling on everything that was wrong in his life made it impossible to study. And to top it off, when he finally did fall asleep the hours he'd spent brooding had infected his dreams; Harry wasn't sure which of them had been worse.

Twisted figures he couldn't make out swirled around him before merging together to form something larger and more threatening. Its body shifted constantly, and Harry couldn't make out its face, but somehow he knew that it was a man. It made the wind howl, pushing him back towards the darkness around him and nothing he said or did – no matter how hard he shouted or tried to strike him – nothing would make the man go away and leave him alone.

He had woken up seething but didn't know who he was mad at: Dumbledore, Lichfield, Sirius Black, or someone else entirely. The only tiny bit of consolation was the man hadn't been anywhere near as fat as Uncle Vernon so he supposed that for once the Dursleys were the least of his worries. Harry didn't care what Dumbledore, the Ministry, or anyone else said about it; his time with the Dursleys was done. He'd run away again before he ever went back there.

The second dream he had was just… _weird_. Hermione was at the Burrow, which was strange enough, but she was upset at him for some reason. Harry hadn't remembered doing anything wrong but it wasn't like she could tell him even if he had. The only thing coming out of her mouth was harsh-sounding gibberish and her father was no help at all. He just sat back and watched saying, "I'm not getting involved with this," whenever he was asked to explain.

Eventually she'd had enough and the fireplace turned into a green monster and ate her. After that Harry had been left to wander through the house to find where everyone else had gone. None of the Weasleys were there but Hermione's dad was in every room, still just watching with that amused grin on his face that made him nervous. When he'd gotten to the attic Harry found him dressed like a clown where he danced around a bit before exploding into a dozen smaller versions that ran past him and started trashing the house.

It was almost a relief when the guys had woken him up. At first he thought it was to ask him about the night before, but it turned out just to be breakfast. Harry followed along behind them as they made their way down the winding wooden staircase.

The four brothers were talking amongst themselves about the Defense study group that McGonagall had given Percy the go-ahead for but he found it hard to pay attention. Even once they switched to the prospect of "putting the new broom through its paces" listening seemed a chore since they were doing it in the same we're-purposely-not-talking-about-something kind of way that had become all too common lately. Harry didn't know if he really wanted to talk about it but was it too much to expect someone to care enough to ask?

Percy was Percy but Fred and George were friends of a sort – in a barrel-of-laughs, let's-hang-out-and-have-fun kind of way. Throwing boisterous parties after Quidditch wins or pulling pranks on Percy didn't really lend itself to talking about anything important though. Them not talking about it kind of felt like how they avoided Ginny and those Boy-Who-Lived books, so perhaps it was like their mother not wanting to make things awkward by mentioning awkward things rather than them not caring.

Ron had been his best friend since they met on the train though, surely he'd say something. They'd been together when they faced the troll, found out about Fluffy, searched for information about Nicholas Flamel… True, he'd been in the hospital wing with a poisoned dragon bite when he found out that Voldemort was hunting unicorns and wanted the Sorcerer's Stone for himself, but Hermione hadn't been with him either and Harry told them both about it right off so it wasn't like they had never talked about anything serious. They had even talked about uncomfortable things before when the whole thing about Hermione being his girlfriend came out.

It had taken him almost a week to notice that anything was going on in the first place though so maybe that would come later; that's if Ron actually noticed. Ever since the possibility of a reserve team had been mentioned Harry had noticed that Ron had gotten more and more interested in Quidditch, to the extent that practically all they did now was practice. The game itself was great when all the chaos was going on around you and the fate of the entire match depended on what you did during one mad dash for the snitch – like it was when you were Seeker – but Harry doubted that practicing every minute of every day until they got back to Hogwarts would ever make him a decent Chaser.

And as much as he'd like to have Ron on the Gryffindor team and think it'd be great to get him closer to his dream of playing for the Chudley Cannons, even if they were ninth in the league and falling fast, Harry'd hate to think that all they had in common was Quidditch. They were both friends with Hermione, true, and he had become friends with other members of his family, and was renting a room from them, but rather than making their friendship stronger because of all that somehow it made it seem less for some reason.

Harry was getting to know Hermione better but that didn't mean he wanted to lose Ron as a friend. So with Ron going more towards Quidditch and him going in a more Hermione-like direction, what would that do to their friendship? Harry pushed those thoughts away; he was sure he was overreacting over nothing at all. Maybe he just wasn't used to how things were at the Burrow. After all, when they got back to Hogwarts they still have homework to do and Snape to complain about, so there was always that.

Maybe he really was looking at it the wrong way, Harry thought to himself. Maybe they weren't bringing up what had happened because they didn't think it was their place to bring it up. Was this one of those things that you only talked about with your girlfriend? Harry didn't know a lot about how having a girlfriend was supposed to be like but he knew enough to know that there were things that you only talked about with them, so maybe this was one of them.

He liked Hermione, he did; he liked writing to her and spending more time with her. The last two days at Diagon Alley had been great, besides that part where they were kidnapped and had their brains sucked out by the goblins for saying the wrong word. And Hermione knew more about what was going on with him than anyone else did – a lot more – but he didn't want to throw another problem on top of everything else, especially so soon after they'd had a nice time together. Maybe she'd think he was more trouble than he was worth and back out.

"Hey look, Harry. Your girlfriend's here!" Ron said suddenly as he got to the kitchen area.

Harry looked up quickly, expecting to see a smiling face and a mane of frizzy hair, only to see their brother sitting at the table with a load of books and papers around him. Bill looked at them and turned to glance through the windows to make sure no one was actually about to turn up before looking back at them again.

"Cute," Bill said as he ran his fingers through his ponytail and flicked it back behind him. "Very funny," he said humorlessly, giving the impression he'd heard the like before.

The other brothers chuckled as they all took their seats and Harry tried to look like he hadn't been looking forward to seeing Hermione again. Bill buried himself in a book about magical metallurgy while Molly served up another warm Weasley breakfast.

"So what will you four be up to today?" she asked them while heaping extra bacon onto his plate.

"The usual, I guess," George said as he started eating.

"Yeah, not much changes here," Fred agreed. "Unless we can get our hands on some more fireworks," he said with a grin.

"That's the last thing we need," Mrs. Weasley chided. "Dangerous enough having them bounce around in here; we can't have them getting loose and drawing muggle attention."

"But the town's miles away," Ron interjected. "No one's going to see us."

"And have you all finished your homework yet?" she asked changing the subject and a sharp eye out for any falsehoods.

"Fred and I are almost done," George answered for them in such a saintly way that Harry couldn't decide if he was lying or not. "We do a question every weekend."

"At this rate we'll be done in six weeks," Fred said and Harry couldn't help but snigger.

"You'll be at school in two and a half!" their mother said crossly.

"That's still plenty of time," Ron said evasively.

"It's not like Binns can grade his assignments even if we did them," Fred said. "He's dead."

"And everyone gets a T in his class anyway," George agreed with a shrug.

Harry was about to ask what a 'T' was when Bill added, "Not everyone gets a T."

"Yeah, how could we forget about Hermione?" Fred said to George while gesturing to Bill.

Harry did not like this new joke; Bill was not his girlfriend.

"Just because most people fail doesn't mean that you shouldn't try," Mrs. Weasley said reprovingly. "You haven't started at all, I take it?" she said to Ron accusingly.

"It's not like Harry's done it either–," he replied.

"I'm already finished, actually," Harry admitted, somewhat regretting at having to go against Ron. The others looked over at him curiously but he didn't see what was so surprising. Homework was actually rather easy once you got down to it; the answers were right in the book. What had they been expecting him to do when he was spending all that time up in his room alone?

"That makes it easy then," Ron said with a grin. "I can copy off you."

"You most certainly will not," Mrs. Weasley said in a most Hermione-like way. "Homework is there to help you learn, and you won't learn anything by copying."

"Besides, if you're only doing the homework," Bill added, "you're not even doing half of the work you need to."

"What do you mean?" Percy asked.

"You think me and Charlie got Outstandings just from doing our homework?" the Curse-Breaker asked. "That'll get you an Acceptable, maybe an Exceeds Expectations at most, but for an Outstanding you've got to show them that you've gone beyond what's required. And preferably you show them something that they don't even know they're looking for."

Harry didn't know if he'd be telling that to Hermione or not because if he did he might never get her out of a book again.

"We'll get on it tomorrow," George told his mother grudgingly as he took a bite of toast.

"See that you do," Mrs. Weasley said with an air of finality. "And no letting your grades slip, they were much too low last year. If you don't get at least an A in your classes I'll have McGonagall pull you off that team. That goes for reserve whatchucallits too," she added to Ron when they protested.

There was plenty of mutinous muttering for the rest of breakfast from everyone but Percy, who alone seemed to think their mother's hard stance was appropriate, but that didn't stop him from asking what she meant by "at least an A." Apparently the strangeness of the wizarding world didn't stop with their laws, banks, and busses but also included their grades. Of course they thought the muggle way of doing it was just as strange.

"So you have A through D, and everything else is an F?" Ron asked bewilderingly as he got up from the table and shouldered his new broom. "What about an E?"

"There are no 'E's," he explained. "They probably didn't want anyone to think that it meant 'Excellent.'" Harry didn't know if that was the real reason but it made sense to him.

"Couldn't 'F' mean 'Fantastic'?"

"I think 'F' means you're Fu–," Fred was interrupted by Molly before they got to the door.

"If you're going to be wasting your day with Quidditch, you let your sister play too," she preemptively scolded them, which for some reason drew an amused look from Bill.

"But she doesn't even have a broom," Ron protested.

"What, you think you're so special that you get to have two of them?" Fred asked with a look.

"Looks like that Shooting Star is hers now," George agreed.

Even though his old broom was often outstripped by passing butterflies, and his Air Wave Gold was sure to be better in every way, Ron didn't look happy by this new development.

"With the four of us she'll still be the odd man out," Ron complained. "The teams won't be even."

"Hey Bill, Percy," Harry said getting an idea. "Does one of you want to come too?" he asked thinking that with someone to pass the quaffle to he might not make such a bad showing.

"Wish I could," Bill replied with a grin while glancing up from his notes. "Some of us have to work for a living though."

"I've got to get started on the lesson plans for our Defense group," Percy pompously replied. "Penelope should be mailing her thoughts today too," he said before taking his leave and leaving him with only one other solution.

"You guys go on without me," Harry told the others.

"You sure, Harry?" George asked, the twins looking at him nonplussed.

"Yeah, I'll sit this one out," he replied.

"But we were going to test this against your Nimbus 2000," Ron said hefting his broom.

"You can still use it without me," Harry said with a shrug.

"That's nice of you, dear," Molly said touching his shoulder as she left the kitchen. She doubled back before she hit the living room. "If I hear one word about you not giving Ginny a turn there'll be no Quidditch for any of you for the rest of the summer, homework or no," she told her sons before giving a nod to Bill for some reason.

"What's up with her?" Fred asked when their mother had gone upstairs and was safely out of earshot.

"You don't want to know," Bill said with a shake of his head and a shooing gesture. "Just get going before she changes her mind and makes it worse."

Soon after Harry found himself with nothing to do once Fred, George, and Ron left to make the trek up to their Quidditch pitch. He wondered if it was too early to write Hermione, and if he did what he could say without being a downer. He was just considering going back to his room to take a look at the new school books for the year – the ones he hadn't leant to Percy anyway – when Bill grabbed his head and let out a frustrated noise.

"Something wrong?" Harry asked him.

"I think I've gotten so used to messing things up that I've forgotten how to do it right," the older boy grumbled while looking back over his notes.

"What are you doing?" he asked, inching closer to get a better look.

"Just something for work," Bill replied with a furrowed brow. "I wouldn't be able to tell you anything too specific even if I wanted to."

Looking at the notes Harry saw the lines and a few of the symbols he'd come to expect from enchanting but thrown into the middle of it were several strange figures that didn't look anything like what he'd seen before, even from the goblin runes at the bank. There was a circle with a dot in it, an extra curvy lowercase h, a hooked number 4, and a little devil thing with a big head and no legs. But there were also things he recognized from the muggle world there too: those hippie male and female symbols and a crescent moon.

"I've seen some of these before," he said pointing to the figures in the center.

"Yeah, you see them from time to time in Herbology and Potions, occasionally in Astronomy too, but they've moved away from that until N.E.W.T. level classes since we discovered those other planets," Bill said as he ran his fingers through his ponytail and looked at his notes the way Ron would a chessboard. "I'm trying to find a way to figure out the comparative strength of them within a single object in order to determine what it's made of when it's made of different things."

"…What?" Harry asked completely at a loss.

"Sorry, I have to speak in general technicalities in order to avoid spouting gibberish at you," he said with a grin by way of apology. "But I forgot that if you're not that far into magical theory you wouldn't be able to tell the difference," Bill chuckled. "I'll see if I can talk you through the basics though if you want," he said gesturing to the chair beside him.

"I know what these are," he said pointing to the three he knew as he took a seat. "Muggles use them for male and female sometimes. And that one's the moon, isn't it?" he asked pointing to the crescent shape.

"That's some of the things they represent, but I didn't know that muggles knew about them," Bill said curiously. "It makes me think that we didn't do a good enough job at erasing our tracks when we hid our world from them. Those symbols actually represent the seven main celestial bodies…"

If Harry hadn't already heard about Sympathies from Hermione he would've been completely lost in the lecture that followed. As it was he wasn't that far from it since Bill went on to explain how the sun, moon, and planets corresponded to the days of the week, hours in a day, individual organs inside the body, what they did to magical plants, and even what metal matched up with which, though how anyone could figure all of that out was still beyond him.

"Now all of these influences constantly affects things, but in different ways," Bill continued to explain. "So you'd expect these sympathies to be present no matter what that thing was or what it was made of. But what if it's made of bronze, which is an alloy of copper," he said pointing to the female symbol of Venus, "mixed with a bit of tin?" he asked pointing to the hooked 4 of Jupiter. "What would happen then?

"Would one of the sympathies override the other so that it would read as either copper or tin even though it's bronze?" Bill asked spreading his arms as he got to the heart of the issue. "Would they double up or counteract each other like they do in potions? Or would they fuse together like the metals do so that it's not ruled by either Venus or Jupiter but some other thing entirely? And what would that thing be and how would you figure it out?"

Harry thought that was a very good question, and one he had no idea how to answer. As much as he hated it he was starting to see what Snape had been talking about when it came to the "subtle science and exact art of potion-making." What the detestable man had been hinting at really didn't look like magic at all, that much of what he said was true, but it was far more confusing and complicated than anything they'd covered in Transfiguration, and he'd always found that to be somewhat mind-numbing. Unfortunately, Bill wasn't finished.

"It'd be hard enough to figure it out if we're just talking about pure copper and pure tin," he went on to say. "What if there's a little lead in it, iota of iron, or a sliver of silver? You start taking that into account and it starts looking like wheels within wheels within wheels within wheels. Now I was no slouch when it came to Arithmancy, but that many complex calculations are enough to make your head explode."

"Too bad you don't have a computer," Harry said taking refuge back in the muggle way of doing things. "They were made to do things like that."

"You mean hire someone to do it for you?" Bill said curiously. "I think they made that my job for the foreseeable future."

Harry fought the urge to tell him what a computer really was because without knowing a lot more about the muggle world and how it worked than he felt up to explaining he'd only make the older wizard even more confused about things than he was himself. Why on earth would anyone put themselves through that much trouble, no matter how much they were paying him? And why was it his job in the first place? Why would the goblins want to know what metals were–

A lead weight settled in his stomach and Harry was glad he was already sitting down. He looked down at the figure of a circle with a dot in the center and suddenly everything clicked in his mind and fell into place. It was like the whole world curved back in on itself and he was the point it orbited around. The symbol stood for the sun – for gold.

He had taken Hermione to Gringotts so that she could meet Dobby, and one mention of the Sorcerer's Stone and Nicholas Flamel – things she had only known about because he had gotten her involved in the first place – had the goblins suck out their minds and put them on display. Because of that the bank's doors were closed and they weren't allowing anyone to use what Hermione called "hard currency" while Bill had been yanked from his job raiding tombs in Egypt to work on this. It seemed so unlikely that he might as well think that Mrs. Weasley coming back to the kitchen to pull a _Daily Prophet_ from a drawer had something to do with him – but it was true; it was his fault.

"You're here to find out how much fake gold has been made, aren't you?" Harry asked numbly.

The flash of alarm in Bill's eyes was all the confirmation he needed.

"Nonsense, Harry, dear," Molly said from the kitchen as she tucked the paper beneath an arm. "If anyone could just make gold we'd all be rich. It's part of some transfiguration law – Bill, you'd know the one–"

"–Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration," her son interjected looking nervous.

"Yes, that's the one," she agreed.

"But Gamp's Law only applies to actual transfiguration – the type with wands and incantations – it doesn't hold with any other branch of magic," the older wizard pointed out.

"Wait – Are you saying you can actually create gold with magic?"

"Yes, but it was never supposed to happen!" Bill blurted. "Hang on, I understood that," he said looking somewhat confused. "Yes, I'm here to work on a magical device to identify artificial gold," the older wizard said seeming to test every word. "Harry, I think you may have invalidated my Non-Disclosure Agreement. Charlie's going to be so pissed," Bill laughed.

In the period of time that followed Harry wondered just how many times the same conversation was going to have to happen. Luckily, this time Bill was on hand so that he didn't have to participate, though that led to the odd moment of being there when the older boy learned that the ancient wizard responsible for all of this happening was the same one responsible for him being born.

There was some light at the end of the tunnel as far as repeated conversations went though. Bill informed them that not only had Gringotts informed the Ministry of what was going on but the Minister was sure to bring up the subject in today's Wizengamot meeting, so the whole country would know soon. That bit of information sent Mrs. Weasley darting to the radio for any news while Harry heaved a sigh of relief at never having to explain any of this ever again.

"How did you know about anyone making gold?" Bill asked him once his mother left but Harry had no desire to have that conversation again either.

"Why are you only worried about those seven metals?" he replied diverting attention back to a different conversation.

"Because they're the ones found in nature," the older boy replied as if the answer was obvious.

"But what about the other ones?" Harry asked confused.

"What other ones?"

"Well, there's titanium, that's supposed to be stronger than steel," he said trying to remember everything he'd learned about any metals he'd come across. "Aluminium is used in cans for fizzy drinks, nickel is used in pocket change, platinum is supposed to be better than gold, and I've heard of adamantium – but I don't know if that's real or not."

"This is muggle knowledge you're talking about?" Bill asked.

"Yeah, they've known about those for ages," Harry shrugged.

The older wizard looked down at his notes for a moment before speaking.

"They didn't mention anything about those in Muggle Studies," he said judiciously. "But if it's true, it ruins everything I was trying to do," Bill said wadding up his notes and closing his books.

"Sorry about that," Harry said feeling horrible for yet another thing he caused to go wrong.

"Don't be," the older wizard said. "If anything you saved me from going nuts from trying to do the impossible. I don't think anyone's really looked into the subject in a thousand years. Could we really be that far behind the muggles that we didn't even notice this?"

Almost without meaning to Harry thought of plugs, rubber ducks, gasoline, washing machines, and how they didn't know how planes stayed up – to say nothing about atomic bombs. And while the wizarding world was great – Hermione's dad was right, the quills, robes, and owning your own owl did give it an amusement park kind of feel – even with all the magic in the world they didn't seem to be able to keep the halls of Hogwarts from freezing in the winter though.

"Yes," he said answering the older boy's question.

"Well, you lived with them so I'll take your word on it," Bill said as he shoved some books aside and pulled other ones closer to him. "Now it looks like I'm going to have to do a lot more research on it before I can even get started on that. Good thing they gave us the day to come up with ideas by ourselves first," he said though Harry could tell that the older wizard was worried.

"I could ask Hermione," he said hoping to find a way of putting things back together again. "If there's anyone that's able to find a book on it, it'll be her."

"That'd be helpful, thanks," the older wizard said appreciatively.

Harry got up from the table, thinking to watch how the other Weasleys were getting on from a distance as Bill started opening up his other books. The columns of runes covering the pages drew his attention and made him and made him look back cautiously. Bill spotted the movement and looked up at him.

"I'd ask what you were doing," Harry said hesitatingly, "but I'd probably mess things up for you again."

"Have you ever thought about a career in curse-breaking?" Bill chuckled. "It sounds like you'd be good at it."

"Well, Barchoke threatened to drag Hermione off to their legal department," Harry said with a smile. "Maybe if I'm a curse-breaker I can break her out again."

"At the very least you'll be able to see her once in a while," the older wizard agreed. "I wouldn't want to steal her though, goblins tend to get possessive, but you're welcome to try," Bill said flippantly before drawing out a parchment covered in an overlapping series of circles, multi-pointed stars, and runes laid out at precise angles, though some parts of it seemed somehow less certain than others.

"I doubt you'll be able to wreck this as easily as you did the last one, though I am interested in seeing if you can," Bill chuckled. "This thing's thoroughly grounded in the magical world so if you manage to muck things up you should just forget about school and start working immediately," he joked. "I'll even put in a good word for you; not that you need it since you're already in good with Overseer Barchoke."

"Is that what Lichfield gave you yesterday?" Harry asked when something peculiar tugged at his memory.

"Yeah, and I can see a bit of the consanguineous mechanic he was talking about," the curse-breaker said pointing to part of the inner ring of the complex Spirograph-like image. "This is certainly not Egyptian though – no hieroglyphs anywhere – so it's more than a little weird."

"What's sangooey?" he asked as he settled into his seat again.

"Sanguineous relates to blood," Bill explained. "Consanguineous means that it deals with a blood relationship between two people through a common ancestor."

Lichfield telling him that he was related to both Draco Malfoy and Sirius Black, probably through Phineas Black, sent a chill through him as it echoed in his mind for a moment. _'Why would Lichfield be having Bill look into something like that?_' he asked himself.

"What kind of blood relation?" he asked Bill instead, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"I'm not sure," the curse-breaker replied with a furrowed brow as he flipped through what looked to be a runic dictionary. "It'll take a lot more time before I know all the specifics, but this is definitely not something for Hereditary Accounts," he said as he compared a few runes in the book to some on the parchment. "This section here makes me think it relates to a maternal line."

"Why is that important?" Harry asked curiously. Everything the old bailiff had cared about before had been about his father and grandfather, not his mother.

"Because it's just one oddity after another with this," Bill said with a confused look on his face. "First off, it deals with blood, and besides goblins using it for security I don't know many people who'd be comfortable with that. I don't know where the stigma comes from," he explained with a dismissive gesture, "but blood makes people think of the Dark Arts most of the time.

"I wonder if that's why they willingly hand it over to the goblins though," the curse-breaker thought out loud. "Better for them to use whatever Dark goblin arts they have to protect your money than for someone else to use Dark magic to take it away." The older wizard shrugged it off as if it weren't important.

"But even if it's not Egyptian, it still deals with some very ancient magic," Bill continued, getting almost as excited talking about this as his father did with muggle things. "This section here," he gestured to indicate one part of the drawing, "is definitely one of the focal points for the entire schema, and last night I identified it as dealing with the ancient rite of hospitium."

"You mean like a hospital?" Harry asked. He had heard of blood banks but didn't think that they would have anything to do with this.

"Er–," the older wizard said seemingly at a loss. "Well, nowadays it's called hospitality but all the words are probably related since they all deal with caring for people, but no, this is very different. This is the magical concept of a 'guest right' – of taking someone into your home and providing them with food, shelter, and protection."

"Like your family did with me?" he asked catching on.

"Well, yes, kind of, but nowadays that's a cultural thing – it's just good manners," Bill explained. "The rite of hospitality went much further than that, actually evoking magic to seal a pact between the guest and the host, protecting them both, and usually with dire consequences should one of them turn on the other. That's why this is so weird," the curse-breaker smiled. "Hospitium hasn't been used like this in hundreds of years, but there's no way this schema could be more than ten or twenty years old, at most."

"What makes you say that?" Harry asked curiously, his mood changing to pick up the older boy's enthusiasm.

"Because this is an enchanting enchantment," the curse-breaker said pointing to the tiny runes along the sides of the parchment. "It's a way of enchanting an object – usually paper, like this – so that it can then be used to enchant another object."

"Hang on," he said to prevent his head from spinning. "So you can enchant an enchantment to enchant another enchantment? Why would you do something like that?"

"Because with something like this you can create the enchantment in the comfort of your own home," the older boy said gesturing around them, "and then give it to somebody else to use ten years later and half a world away; even after you're dead. Either way it frees you up to do other things in the meantime."

"Oh," Harry said cottoning on to how it would work. "I can see how that'd be useful."

"They definitely are," Bill agreed. "We use them all the time in tombs for quick general negation enchantments or to make it easier to move heavy obstacles. You can never really know what'll set old curses off," he explained. "And enchanting enchantments are especially useful since you don't have to know what you're doing. Modern ones have trigger words to activate them but even with the ancient ones you don't have to know precisely what the enchantment's supposed to do in order to use them."

An idea popped in Harry's head and he asked, "Does that mean that muggles can use them?"

The curse-breaker paused to think about that for a moment.

"Possibly," Bill said with a shrug. "You'd have to break Secrecy in order to test it but I don't know why it wouldn't work – unless you design it not to work that way when you enchant the enchanting enchantment, that is," he hastened to add.

"That might have been what they were originally used for," he said looking at him curiously. "It's said to be an ancient Roman technique that's only been rediscovered in the last two decades, but beyond that details are hard to come by. Once paper starts to disintegrate it's really hard to get it back and you don't want to see what water will do to it," the older wizard explained. "They don't even let us touch the stuff in tombs, it can be that delicate."

"If the technique is that old, how do you know this thing is new?" Harry asked.

"Simple," Bill said with a smile as he ran his fingers through his ponytail again. "The runes that it's written in hadn't been invented yet when the technique had been lost," he chuckled at his own private joke.

"Oh," Harry said, feeling stupid. "But if the technique is Roman, wouldn't they have done it with Roman magic?"

"You mean in Latin?" the older wizard asked. "Talk to an Italian and you'll hear all about what they think about our Latin. _Lumos Solem?"_ the curse-breaker said in a mocking accent._ "That's not 'light of the sun,' you're commanding the sun to be shine. It makes no sense. How is that sunlight?_

"The dirty little secret about enchanting," Bill said in a lowered voice, "is something they'll hint at but never specifically say in school: the runes don't matter," he said dramatically, throwing Harry for a loop. "At least they not in the way you think. The runes themselves aren't magical; it's what we do with them that's magical."

"But how can the runes not be magical if you use them to do magic?" he asked.

"The same way words aren't magical even though we use them in spells," the older wizard replied. "Words are just words, they convey meaning; nothing more. The magic comes from the intent of the person who wields the words, not from the words themselves, and these runes are only words in written form. That's not to say that words aren't important," Bill went on to say, "especially at the beginning. I still remember Flitwick going on about Wizard Baruffio and the buffalo on his chest."

Harry felt like he'd just stepped in a pit of quicksand and was quickly sinking into areas he thought they'd left behind when they stopped talking about the planets. Just how much of what'd learned last year was actually magic and how much was "foolish wand-waving?" Did he even need a wand? He was almost afraid to ask.

"In the last three years though I've seen runes scrawled on paper, carved in wood, and scratched onto stone," the curse-breaker continued. "I've seen hieroglyphs painted in tombs and engraved on temple walls. I've even seen old reliefs worn almost smooth from the fury of a thousand sandstorms and one thing has always stayed the same: the magic remains long after the words are gone.

"Take a look at this thing here," the older wizard said pulling Harry's attention back to the enchantment in front of them. "There are runes, diagrams, and all sorts of cleverness crisscrossing this page, but there's not a bit of magic here," Bill declared.

His brain no longer seemed to work. It was like all the little gears had been knocked loose and there was nothing around to put things back together again.

"But, you just said it was an enchanting enchantment," Harry reminded him. "How can it be an enchantment but not be magic?"

"The same way your school books aren't magic but they still have a bunch of magic spells in them," Bill said with that increasingly frustrating grin of his. "This is just ink on paper, but it's also the schema – the design – for an enchanting enchantment the likes of which I described."

Harry was beginning to think that the older wizard was spinning his head around on purpose just to see him stagger off drunkenly when he was done.

"The runes provide a focus for your intent the same way using the words you learn do," the curse-breaker explained, "but that doesn't mean the words themselves are magical. In your sixth year you start leaving the words unspoken and start doing it all up here," Bill said pointing to his head. "That doesn't mean that there's nothing to learn from reading though and that's what I'm doing with this: trying to piece together the caster's intent by picking apart the words on the page."

"Oh, okay," he said still a little confused. "I think I followed that part at least."

Harry was forcefully reminded of the last time he had gone to a museum. They had some very strange paintings that the Dursleys hadn't approved of. Uncle Vernon had gotten into fight with the guide over whether one of them was a pipe or just a painting of a pipe and they were forced to leave.

"So where does blood come into this?" he asked, seeming to have lost track of that bit of the conversation somewhere along the way.

"Oh! Right, hospitality," Bill said getting back on track and scrutinizing the schema-thing again. "This actually seems to have the consanguineous bit on here more than once, so I wonder if it's the blood relations that were supposed to be the target of the enchantment or maybe the blood itself?" the curse-breaker surmised. "Ah! Of course, as part of the rite of hospitium. The relatives take in their relation, get affected by the enchantment, and some sort of... blood protection is imbued? Or shared? It's kind of fuzzy."

Harry was beginning to hate these sinking feelings he got when he figured out something horrible that he probably didn't want to know. That didn't stop them from happening though or stop him from hearing Dumbledore's voice saying,_ '...to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin._' Hating it also didn't stop him from having to know for sure either.

"Who would be the one protected by this," he asked, "the blood relatives or the person they took in?"

"Definitely the blood relatives," Bill said as he went over the parchment. "As long as they shared the same maternal line. Like my mum and us kids could be affected like this but dad would be left out of it. What precisely they would get I don't know, and there doesn't seem to be any ill effects included for mistreatment. There does seem to be some targeted protections for the general area that everyone would benefit from though."

"And how long would those protections last?" Harry wanted to know as his mood turned sour.

"There might be some specific ending conditions," Bill replied as he consulted his books again, "but generally for however long the person stayed with their host plus some time afterwards. This one seems extended somehow," he said tapping the parchment, "but the longest period on record is a year after departure, according to _Rites of the Ancient World._"

"That's long enough to go to school and back," he said feeling his anger rising but trying to keep it out of his voice.

"Might be long enough to fly to the moon and back nowadays," the older wizard agreed as he continued to consult his books.

"And how long would someone have to stay for them to gain this protection?" Harry asked.

"Er–," Bill murmured as he flipped back a few pages. "It doesn't say precisely. As long as they are welcomed back before the time expires it should remain intact, but for how long... Long enough to be a proper guest, the same as when it's first established. At least a day, I'd say."

.o0O0o.

With a tap of her wand Molly switched off the wireless and resumed her pacing. Walking back and forth though gave no relief for her nervousness either and only led her to turn it back on again a minute later. She had never been one who could abide simply waiting for news but it'd be an easier thing to do if there was more than one station to distract herself with.

Of course the station itself left much to be desired. On their trips to Platform 9 &amp; 3/4 the muggle stations they'd picked up in the car had always been very prompt with their news, giving "a rundown at the top and bottom of the hour," whatever that was supposed to mean. Was it too much to ask for the normal news to be as prompt?

She paced back and forth, occasionally catching a glimpse of Bill and Harry huddled around the table, and tried not to hear the mindless drivel wafting her way from the wireless. The silly romance plays they had on early to mid-morning were almost insultingly stupid. Only the worst sort of person would find themselves torn between a pair of equally disreputable lovers. How many times can one woman waver between a werewolf and a vampire, let alone consider either of them in the first place? She should just find herself a nice normal wizard and be done with it; the most she'd have to worry about then was boredom.

Surely they would break into their normal shows and announce something as world-changing as all the gold in Gringotts being worthless. They would have to, wouldn't they? Even if they didn't broadcast the Wizengamot meeting itself, any truly important news would be reported as soon as possible, right? If they didn't she'd have to hope they printed an _Evening Prophet_ to get the details.

Taking a moment to pull herself together she reminded herself that Arthur had gone in to work early to see how his Muggle Protection Act fared. So even if whoever ran the wireless didn't break into their precious 'passion plays' she'd know more about the situation when he got home than everyone else would. That's if they didn't clear the viewing area before they begin. If they had…

Well, she had always said that he was unappreciated and if the Ministry threw him out after everything he'd done for them it would prove it. He was the head of his Office; he deserved his own seat in the Ministerial section. How could he call himself a head without a chair to sit on? It was so insulting she'd almost swear her harpy of a mother had had something to do with it.

As far from the kitchen as she could get, Molly slowly sank into a chair and struggled not to cry. For the first time since the war she was scared. She had fought, sacrificed, ripped her family in two, and struggled some more to get the life she had and even then she and Arthur had had to scratch and claw for every bit of sun they could find.

She couldn't believe that it could all be swept away so quickly. If those spiteful bureaucrats in the Ministry didn't listen and have the Wizengamot pass those protections… How long would their handful of silver last? A day? Two? And how could the Ministry pay its people when it had no gold to stand on?

Molly was just thankful that the kids' schooling had already been paid for this year, but what about the next? It took almost all of Arthur's pay to keep Fred, George, and Ron at Hogwarts and make their lease payments. Thankfully Harry had said that they didn't have the lease to worry on this year so they might be able to save up for Ginny too, but if Hogwarts prices were thrown into chaos along with everything else, she didn't know what they would do.

Maybe Arthur was right, maybe she–

A foul curse came from the kitchen, almost overridden by the sound by a shoved table and someone running from the house. Surprised, she made her way there to find out what happened, only to see an equally surprised Bill at a slanted table with the door still open. Where Harry was she had no idea.

"What happened?" she asked. "Where's Harry?"

"I don't know, he just cursed Dumbledore and ran off," Bill said as he got up to peek through the windows. "He couldn't have gotten far; odds are he's hiding behind that fence. I'll go after him," he said wearily.

"You let him vent for a while," Molly chided him. "Merlin knows he has enough to be angry about you making it worse. We were supposed to be trying to cheer him up. What did you do?"

"I was trying," the boy said defensively. "You mentioned his interest in enchanting, that's why I left my stuff out last night. I never expected him to blow up like that – then again I didn't expect him to upturn hundreds of years of magical theory either."

"What. Did. You. Say. To. Him?" she demanded.

The brief review of the conversation they had made her feel just awful for that poor boy, and filled her with the desire to hit her own. How could he be so stupid?

"Bill, he was abandoned in the middle of the night on his mother's sister's doorstep," she reminded him, though in truth she didn't know if he was aware in the first place. "How did you think he would take it? Now you take all of this upstairs and make yourself scarce," she gestured to the mess that was his work.

Molly looked outside to see the messy mop of Harry's head languidly make its way up the hill towards the tree line. She hoped the twins could get him back into brighter spirits again somehow. What they needed though was some way of bringing the boy out of his shell and comforting him because right now they were failing.

.o0O0o.

"Alright now, rinse," the frizzy-haired dentist said looking down as his latest patient swished fluid around in his mouth. "And spit," he said smiling, watching the still-novocained youngster dribble down his chin as he spit into the tiny toilet bowl by the chair.

He never got tired of watching them do that.

"And now we're done," the man called Dan said happily. "Wasn't that easy?" he asked the glassy-eyed youth before turning to the mother. "If you go up to the cashier she can ring you up, and don't you think I've forgotten about you. You're only making that upper right side worse by waiting," he playfully chided her.

He left the exam room and made his way through the tight corridors to the front, where he handed the file over to Clara the cashier before approaching Martha at the desk.

"So, who's next up for Dan's Dental Dreamworks?" he asked the secretary while wiggling his fingers.

"Your favorite," the dark-haired woman said with a grin, "Robbie Fenwick."

"He can't be here, can he?" he said with a shudder as he tried to peek through the office window and avoid being seen at the same time. "Has it really been six months?"

"He is, it has, and he's up," she said unhelpfully as she handed him the file.

"The Blighted Biter of Buckland Rise rides again," he groused. "Remind me again, why can't we knock him out, yank all his teeth, and give him dentures?"

"Because you'll be sued, lose your license, and probably end up in jail," she said with a look.

"Yes, but wouldn't it be worth it?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"Not to me," the woman answered. "I don't fancy being called into court as a witness. If you if want to bump him over to Sam though, you're in luck," she said as she handed him a Post-it note. "Your daughter called."

"Huh," he murmured genuinely stumped. "She never calls for anything. I guess I should take this," he smiled handing her back Ravenous Robbie's file. "No idea how long it'll take. Probably hugely important. Sam will understand," he winked.

He headed back to his office with a spring in his step. It'd be six more months before the ferocious ferret-faced Fenwick came back to bother him. Today was a good day.

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** A day after I posted the last chapter the internet exploded with the whole "Black Hermione" thing. I was actually going to address this but... No. Believe what you want, do what you want, that's not why I'm here. I'm only here to write the kind of story I'd like to see more of while using the existing Harry Potter series as a foundation; everything else is immaterial.

As fans, Hermione Granger lives in our minds and thus will be more a reflection on us and what we think of her rather than anything else. Noma Dumezweni, Emma Watson, and others in the future may give the character form for a period of time and present their interpretation as a performance but they are no more Hermione than J. K. Rowling is and anything they say about her has no bearing on our individual interpretations of the character. They possess no more insight to her than the next fan does and we are under no obligation to listen to them prattle on about it or to change our views to match theirs. So that's all I have to say about that.

As always, thanks for reading.


	29. Collywobbly Mollywobbles

**AN****:** This chapter's dedicated to perhaps my youngest readers, a pair of sisters aged 11 and 13. I don't even know their names but I thank their mother, who happens to be my favorite Deathday Party Planner, for inviting them to share in the fun. Hi girls! –flails his entire arm around waving when just his hand would do–

Mothers do a lot for us, they worry about us constantly, and they really don't get the credit they deserve, so everyone give your mothers a hug if you can – and your fathers too if they're in any way like Hermione's.

.o0O0o.

As the overhead lights flickered on in his office the man called Dan looked down the hallway just in time to see Sam, his latest partner in dental damage-control, approach Martha for his next victim. He fled inside and shut the door when he saw the smiling man frown, hoping that she'd sell him fobbing off Robbie Fenwick well enough to be believable. He didn't think he had too much to worry about in that regard, Martha always took his side with pestering new people and Sam has only worked here a year and a half.

Bumping up against forty-two, the frizzy-haired dentist unashamedly made the 'old man noise' as he settled into the swivel-chair at his desk. His eyes fell on the stuffed bear that had occupied the nearest corner of the tiny office for the last several years. It was a poor replacement for the little girl who used to do her coloring, numbers, and homework there but eventually she "grew up" and needed an office of her own.

It always brought a smile to his face remembering when he first found her in her closet with pillows around her for comfort and old desk lamps she'd found somewhere for light as she worked on her lessons. It didn't make her absence any less though, but nothing ever did. Maybe he should get it a frizzy wig.

"Hey Bobo," he said as he reached over and gave the bear a pat on the head. "You know, you'll never finish that picture if you wait until you know how to do it perfectly," he gestured to the open coloring book on the bear's lap. "Just get in there and go nuts with it."

Bobo the Bear was a creature of intense focus, much like the woman that had given it to him when he'd complained of the empty corner, so it wasn't surprising that he didn't respond. Instead of killing time being crazy he wound up his pair of plastic teeth and watched as it chomped the air and rattled its way across his desk until he could be sure that Robbie Fenwick was safely in the exam room. After he had felt that he'd kept the entire world waiting long enough he picked up the phone and dialed his home number.

"Grangerresidence,HermioneGrangerspeaking," he was greeted with after what may have been half a ring.

"Hey Pumpkin," he said curious at his daughter's eagerness. "How's the daaaay?" he playfully added knowing it would irk her. These little constant irritations had so far worked wonders at bringing her out of her shell a bit more and he saw no reason to stop pestering her now.

"How long are you going to be calling me 'Pumpkin'?" she asked, the waves of mortification practically radiating out of the phone.

"That depends how long it takes to find out what you needed to talk to me about," he said, answering a completely different question to the one she asked. "And I'm not Pumpkin, you are."

He covered the mouthpiece as he silently laughed. How he loved being the clueless annoying dad; it really made having a kid worthwhile.

"I could go back to calling you 'Little Puckle' if you'd like," he suggested giving her an equally irksome option to be repulsed by. After a moment of no doubt irritated silence he gave his daughter a way out, "Is that all you wanted to talk about? Because if so I've got teeth to clean."

"No, I wanted to ask if I could go over to a friend's house today," she said in a not-asking tone.

"I didn't know you had friends living nearby," he said as he flipped through his mental rolodex of Hermione-related things and coming up blank.

"So can I go?" she asked rather than answering his implied question.

"Well, who are these friends?" he asked dubiously.

"Just kids from school," she said evasively.

While it was true that the only 'friends' and 'kids from school' she really mentioned were these Harry and Ron boys he couldn't discount the possibility her knowing others as well. Normally he'd applaud her trying such a tactic but this time she'd chosen to try it against him, and that told him two things. First, that her mother would've said no immediately; and second, she saw him as the softer target – which, admittedly, he was.

"So what are their parents' names so I can call them if I need to?" he probed.

"I don't know if they have a phone," his daughter said in a way that could almost make him see her brace for an impact as her hopes headed towards a brick wall.

"These wizardy-folks?" he asked, fingering today's tabloid. "I don't think I like the idea of you going over somewhere that doesn't have a phone. What if you get gored by a… rampaging unicorn or something?" he asked grasping for an example. "You could be dead or in the hospital for hours before we get an owl. Wait – do they even have hospitals? You said they did, didn't you? What's their healthcare system like compared to the NHS?"

"Yes, they're magical but we're not going anywhere near any magical creatures," she rebutted his concerns. "We're just going to be studying and talking about next year. And while I don't know what their hospitals are like, with magic I'd have to assume that it's better than ours. Our school nurse was said to be able to mend broken bones in a heartbeat."

"Treating compound fractures like they're whimsical isn't that big of a selling point," he told his daughter. "Remember the last time we went skiing and I broke my leg? You'd think the world was coming to an end with the way you behaved."

"Well you shouldn't have taken a toboggan down the advanced ski slope," she chided.

"Yes, well, you only live once," he said with a dismissive wave she'd never see.

"You only die once too," she countered.

"You think we should do that again?" he asked as an idea popped into his head.

Hermione responded with a short, choppy, "What?"

"Go skiing," he replied happily. "You know, hit the slopes; get all wet and cold. Not now though, not enough time left – next summer then. Or we could go water-skiing, get some sun, do some snorkeling, some beaching – is 'beaching' a verb?" he asked as he flicked the top of his plastic chompy-teeth toy.

"Not the way you're using it, no," she replied. "Daddy, you're deflecting."

He sat in his chair in a bit of a huff. She wasn't supposed to use the 'daddy card' anymore, it was fighting dirty. He had a sinking suspicion what was going on so if she wanted to fight asymmetrically then so could he.

"Well, even if I wanted to say yes I couldn't let you go without knowing where you'd be and who'd be there," he said with a parental air of finality.

Placed squarely in the position of backing out, revealing what she obviously didn't want him to know, or defying the big cuddly bear and running off without permission he really didn't know what Hermione'd do. No doubt she'd called in the first place knowing that he wasn't likely to tell her unequivocally no but her evasiveness made it plain that she thought that even he might not approve.

With her placing him in this position though he hoped she wouldn't then run off if he didn't like what she said. If she did he'd be bound by those iron-clad official parental obligations to become the authoritarian father, and he'd really been hoping to avoid that be she a teenager or no. That was a trigger that you simply couldn't unpull.

"At the Burrow," his daughter said with a defeated sigh, "Mrs. Weasley should be there."

He rapped his knuckles on the desk as his suspicions were confirmed. He may act stupid but he weren't no dummy.

"Ah," he said sagely as he tried to figure out what to do. "So when you asked to go to a friend's house what you really meant was 'could you visit Harry?' Do we need to have a talk about being overeager?"

"I'm not going to have twenty kids," Hermione said prissily. "Besides, I know other people there too," she added defensively.

"Yes, there's troll-boy," he agreed referring to that Ron boy he'd met, "and what did you call those havoc-hatching hellion henchmen he had: Tweedledum and Tweedledumber?"

"They can be a bit much at times but they're not so bad once you get to know them," his daughter said trying to stitch together a case to still go. "Besides, their house is a magical household. That means that we can do magic there."

That bit of news gave him pause.

"I thought that schoolmarm said you couldn't do magic at home once you started there," he said curiously. "They can't have changed it or we would've heard about it straight away when you got back."

"They didn't," she explained, "but there's a loophole in the law. If you're in a magical area and they detect magic used around you, they have to assume it was done by an adult. It's completely unfair," his daughter said before he could, "but Harry says that he doesn't think anyone knows that it's even there. He's been doing it a little in secret to help his studies, so you can see what kind of opportunity it'd be to get some practice in before school."

"Huh. That–," he said a little bit perplexed. "That's a really good reason to go, actually," he admitted, wondering why she didn't start off with this argument instead. _'When you grasp at straws sometimes you find a ladder,_' he guessed.

"Hang on," he said, scratching his head as his mind caught up with the rest of him. "That red-haired fellow said they lived near 'Ottery St. Catchpole' but no one here's even heard of it. The closest I could find was an Ottery St. Mary and that's on the other side of the country. How the heck you gonna get there?" he asked before realizing that he essentially just agreed that she could go.

"I have a friend who can take me there and back faster than you can blink, so you don't have to worry," she said happily as the exhausted hamster that powered his brain desperately tried to spin his wheel faster to keep things going.

"Who is this friend?" he asked curiously. "And do they even know you're coming?"

"No, they don't. I was going to send them a letter asking if I could but I couldn't find Imogen last night and even if I did it wouldn't be until later today that I got my answer and by then you might think it's too late, but if I asked you beforehand I knew you'd say no since we'd only just got back home," his daughter said with ever increasing rapidity as she disgorged her line of thinking at him. "So I decided to wait until I asked you today because I didn't want to get my hopes up and because this friend wasn't available to deliver a message until now, but what's the point of delivering a message when I can just go over there myself?"

"And what if they have plans for the day? They could be off–," he looked to the tabloid for inspiration as he couched the receiver between his shoulder and ear. "–Fighting monsters or aliens. It's a bit rude just to show up unannounced like that, you know."

"If they have plans, I promise I won't impose, and if there are monsters or aliens I'll come back immediately," she said in a tone much more receptive to joking.

"Well, when you say it that way..." he said with a roll of his eyes.

Hermione gave one of her super-rare, once every blue moon, happy squeal of over-excitement usually reserved for getting that book she really really wanted but hadn't been expecting to get. Astonishingly, this was the second time she'd done it in the last two weeks.

_'My little bookworm's turned into a squealing, Harry-crazed teenager,_' he thought sorrowfully. _'Is this success or certain doom? I really can't tell anymore._'

"Thanks, Dad," she said with a smile that was clear through the phone.

"Hang on now," he interjected before she could run too far off ahead. "I never technically said you could go," he rightfully pointed out. "But even if I did, just… go slow, alright? And don't expect this to be an everyday kind of thing, and I'd want you home by dinner," he hastened to add. "But still, you haven't told me about this friend of yours and how they're getting you from place to place."

"I don't really think I can," she said curiously before continuing on in a whisper. "What she's doing for me may technically be illegal because I'm a muggleborn in a muggle house. If so, it's a stupid law–"

"–But just the sort of thing that should be broken at every opportunity," he finished for her in full agreement with his little social rebel. "I don't see why you can't tell me though," he said before lowering his voice too. "Do you think they might be listening?"

Hermione chuckled and continued at a normal speaking level. "Harry said that Mr. Weasley asked him what the function of a rubber duck was, and he works with muggle things for a living. I think monitoring telephones is a bit beyond them."

"Ah!" he said dramatically. "But they could always want you to think that they don't know what they're doing..."

"Either way," she said back in a whisper again. "She's here and I don't want her to feel bad for thinking that she may be doing something wrong. It isn't nice. However," his daughter said in a normal tone, "I did find a way to give you a clue."

"Really?" he asked quizzically. "How so?"

"Hold out your hands and close your eyes, and I'll give you a big surprise," his daughter said with what had to be an obvious grin to go with the annoyingly Granger way she said that.

"I know you're playing with me," he told his daughter in what must be an infinitesimal amount of the irritation she must contend with on a nearly constant basis coupled with the happiness of hearing something that he'd never thought he'd live to hear from her. "But you know what? Just for saying it that way, sure, I'll play along," he said as he closed his eyes and held out his hands, palms upwards.

"Alright," he said when he was in position. "So how long do I have to–?"

Just then a weight suddenly shifted his hands and there was a _pop!_ nearby. The shock made his eyes pop open and the phone to fall as he scrambled to adjust. Even with all the topsy-turvy craziness though he couldn't miss the warm, fudgy, cakey, gooey goodness heaped high upon the plate that was now in his hands as he set it on the desk.

_'I love my daughter,_' he thought as he gazed at it all with the wide-eyed wonder of a child. Something twisted in his mind though as he put two and two together and came up with twenty-two. "Hang on," he said to no one in particular before scrambling to pull the telephone receiver back to him using the spirally cord.

"Where did you find brownies?" he asked his daughter through the phone, meaning it in every possible way.

"Gotta go, Dad, bye!" Hermione said quickly before hanging up on him.

"But–!" he in vain, trying to piece together the weird turn his life just took. "I'm going to need milk," he said to himself since his there was no point calling his daughter back. He hung up the phone and leaned in to enjoy the chocolaty smell of heaven. _'I'm going to have to cut back after this or I'm gonna get so fat,_' he thought.

A climbing cacophony coming from the front office put his brownie-nosing on hold and he got to his office door just as someone knocked. Since explaining where the brownies came from was out of the question it looked like break time was over. He opened the door and slipped out to find Martha there waiting on him.

"What's going on?" the frizzy-haired dentist asked.

"Mrs. Fenwick and her son are throwing tantrums on their way out," the woman said with an 'I'm tired of dealing with this' look. "He's doing it because Sam 'hurt him' when he poked his cavity and she's mad that he told them never to come back."

"Why did he do that?" he asked, not that he complained in the least.

"It might've been because the boy tore a chunk out of his hand," she said somewhat accusingly as if he had had something to do with it. "He's gone to the hospital for stitches and we're already backed up," Martha said handing him the next patient's file before turning and walking away.

_'That's just great,_' he thought sourly as he walked to exam room one. _'My daughter's run away to be with her boyfriend, I'm up to my eyeballs in work, I can't eat my brownies while they're warm, and I wouldn't have milk if I tried. I might've been better off if I'd let Robbie Fenwick bite me._'

.o0O0o.

With a flick Molly turned the wireless off again. Her family would either suffer total financial collapse or it wouldn't; there was nothing she could really do and all of this pacing was doing nothing to soothe her nerves. Instead of dwelling on it until she wore a rut in the floor she went to the kitchen to look in on something that she might be able to help with. Through the window she could just make out Harry sitting in the distance on the outskirts of the copse of apple trees where the kids played that silly game.

_'What would Glenda Goodwitch do in this situation?'_ she asked herself as she picked up the _Daily Prophet_ and tapped it against the palm of her hand.

The only thing that came to mind was a few simple sayings, the most fitting being, "If someone runs away, they want to be alone, but if they're alone near people then they want to be comforted." The mother in her certainly wanted to go out, give him a hug, and tell him that everything would be alright but was that impulse what Harry needed her to do or what she needed for herself? Being alone near people described her too and she certainly could use some reassurance right now.

If he had been one of her own there would've been no doubt but when every adult in the boy's life only seemed to make things worse would that really be for the best? Merlin knew that the boy needed something, someone to take him in and give him all the mothering that he'd missed out on, but so many things that she'd come to rely on had been completely overturned in the short time he's been here that she didn't know how he'd respond if she tried. Would he take to it like a needy child and become family in all but name or would he lash out for her trying to take what should've been his mother's place and push himself further away?

She supposed it was some consolation that whatever it was that was bothering him that Harry seemed to know what it was that he needed to feel better. Who better to comfort you when all the adults have failed than people your own age? And while Bill had chided her for not seeing the Ginny she had but rather the one she'd wanted her to be – a charge that was uncomfortably true the more she thought of it – there was something she knew very well: Arthur and the boys.

Arthur was an amazing man, she'd always said so, and the boys showed many of his best qualities in wondrous ways. Bill got his curiosity and a good bit of the confidence his father had when he was younger; Charlie got his father's thoughtful, caring nature that he showed more often in private; Percy was more like fuddy-duddy Daddy Prewett than a Weasley it seemed but Fred and George made up for that by their father's humor and zest for life shining out in such a way that it bounced back and forth until it exploded for all to see.

Molly would never let them know it lest they take it as encouragement and make their home even more of a mad house than it already was, but they were like their father writ large before the long years of toil had dimmed that light and ingrained this world-weariness in him that nothing seemed to lift. If she had one hope for them as a mother it'd be that nothing would ever divide them since once happened it would be much more likely that the same thing would happen to them. Hopefully any girls they found would be able to appreciate that.

The one Harry'd be most likely to approach though was probably the one least likely to be able to help. Molly didn't know if it was all the stress and worry they'd had during the war that affected him or what but Ronald has always had this great indifference about him. It's as if he'd already developed his father's world-weariness himself.

_ 'The boy's twelve years old!'_ she thought to herself as she tried to figure him out. _'What great burdens has he carried to have gotten him so downtrodden? Harry's had to handle a hundred times as much as Ron's ever had to this summer alone and is only now getting into a bad state about it. He, on the other hand, seems to have taken one look at his father and decided it was best not to try._'

If she could just get the great gloomy grump to take one step in any direction then maybe he could gain some momentum with something. Perhaps that 'at least an A' rule would help nudge him to grow one way or another or that preoccupation with Quidditch would. Merlin knew that if he sat still any longer he'd be harder to uproot than a stubborn mandrake.

Looking at it from this distance perhaps letting the boys comfort him was the wrong thing to do after all. But still, she couldn't just walk out there and ask him what's bothering him. What boy would talk to a mother-like figure – be she an adoptive mother or no – while in sight of his friends? Harry might be a kinder boy than any of hers but no boy she ever met would open himself up to that kind of ribbing, and no amount of scolding would fend it off.

Maybe she should write to–

An abrupt_ brrrumpt!_ from somewhere above stopped that line of thought as curiosity as to what could have broken the house's silence took over. There hadn't been anything that loud or sudden since Arthur's blasted ghoul had been removed from the attic. The man himself may have moaned as much as it ever had when he found out but eventually he'd had to accept that there was simply no reforming them.

_'What mischief is Bill up to now?'_ Molly thought as she made her way through the living room. _'Putting a boggart under Harry's bed most like. What better way to ward off what's on his mind than to make him confront the worst thing he can imagine?'_

When she looked up the stairwell though Bill was already on a level above her looking upwards for answers.

"What's going on?" she quietly asked up to her son. "Is Percy moving furniture about?"

"No, it didn't come from his room," he replied, "It came from my – er – Harry's room. Did the boys come back in yet?"

"Of course not," Molly said. "They'll be out there for hours."

"I'm going to go and check it out," Bill said with a grim face that made her nervous. That nervousness mounted with every step he took so that before he'd gone three paces she was already on her way up to join him.

_'Merlin, if it is a boggart the fool boy could get himself killed taking it on alone,_' she said to herself as she followed her son.

She got to the door just in time for Bill to go charging through and before she'd even had time to exchange the paper for her wand. Poking her head inside though it was hard to tell which of the room's three inhabitants was the most surprised: the brown-haired girl who'd immediately put her hands up as if caught stealing cookies, the brown-haired house-elf caught peeking in a wicker basket, or the snowy owl on the disturbed desk that actually lived here. She might only have had a passing acquaintance to the smallest two but Bill seemed to take it all in stride, even going so far as to chuckle as he put away his wand.

"You know, if Harry's going to keep you imprisoned up here," he said with a grin, "the least he can do is invite you down for breakfast."

"Bill, that's not appropriate," she scolded him with a light swat with the paper, his joke telling her instantly who the girl was. While her hair was very wavy it certainly didn't look like the frizzy mane it'd been described to be. "You must be Hermione," Molly said as she came into the room and gave the girl a pleasant smile. "I've heard some very nice things about you," she said as she extended her hand in welcome.

"And you must be Molly Weasley," the girl said accepting it with a pleasant smile of her own. "Harry's told me good things about you too."

"Bill," she said turning back to her son and using the paper to gesture for him to leave. "Why don't you go on back to your room while I fill Hermione in on our little Harry problem?"

"There's a problem with Harry?" the girl asked anxiously as she hitched her book bag up higher on her shoulder as if she were about to charge off that very instant. "Where is he? Is he alright?"

_'Oh, yes,_' Molly thought to herself and couldn't help but smile. _'This girl will do fine._'

.o0O0o.

A streak of motion darted across the orchard before a polite cheer and clapping accompanied the latest goal. Harry didn't know if the guys were letting Ginny win just to make their mother happy but it definitely seemed like they were going easy on her from where he sat. He was only paying it half a mind though so the truth could've been very different; Ron's protests that it was all a case of beginner's luck seemed particularly genuine.

It made him think about what their lives would've been like if they had never even heard of him at all. Without him playing Fred and George would've had a better Quidditch season last year; Wood would've found someone that wouldn't have been unconscious for their last match and blown their chances for the Cup. Ron might've even taken his place as Seeker for Gryffindor and had a better year too; at the very least he wouldn't have had to deal with Fluffy, Norbert-a, and the Sorcerer's Stone. And without him there wouldn't have been any 'Boy Who Lived' books, meaning that Ginny would've been a completely different person.

Of course, without him there might not have been a Fred, George, or Ron at Hogwarts at all. There'd have been no Bill, Charlie, Percy, or Ginny there either for that matter and Voldemort would still be out there killing people. So maybe their lives could've been a lot worse, but they could've been better too. Maybe Mr. Weasley could've gotten a better job or Mrs. Weasley could've – he didn't know, but something.

Harry didn't want to think about any of this but from where he sat he didn't have a choice. It seemed as though every time he turned around he was learning something else about his life that was messed up – like Dumbledore abandoning him at the Dursleys and stealing his parents' money – only to turn around again and discover that it was a little bit better – he put some protections in place – before it became a lot worse – but failed to punish them for treating him as an subhuman monster and keeping him there for ten years when he'd only needed to be there a day.

It'd be nice to think that turning over every good thing Dumbledore's ever done would uncover some underhanded reason to do it but turning over every bad thing seems to have uncovered something slightly good beneath it too, like it did with the Weasleys. Harry just didn't get it; why couldn't the old man just be one thing? And why couldn't he just leave him alone? It'd be so much easier to really start to hate him if he didn't live with people whose lives have been made better by what he should hate him for. Was it too much to ask for there to be one person who was exactly what they seemed like from the beginning?

"Apple?" a girl's voice asked from somewhere close by. Turning, Harry saw that it was the Luna girl from yesterday in a lime green dress with an apple in one hand and her shoes and a blue pail in the other; he hadn't even heard her approach. "One a day keeps the Healer at bay. I've got some freshwater plimpies too, if you prefer," the blond girl said hefting the pail she carried. "They're better as soup though."

"What's a plimpy?" he asked the odd girl not knowing if he really wanted to know. Fortunately, rather than the strange, mind-spinning explanation she and her father gave yesterday this one was straight-forward.

"Plimpies are a kind of fish-frog creature that usually live in lakes," Luna said as she set down the pail and apple before dipping her hand into it drawing out one of the tiny creatures. It looked like a light green goldfish with long thin legs that it used to waddle around on her hand before falling back into the pail with a _sploosh!_ "Years and years ago some of them got lost and wound up in a stream near our house," she explained with grey eyes that seemed to stare right through him.

"That's what my dad says anyway; I think he may have put them there and forgot. Either way," Luna continued, "those plimpies used to be purple but now they've gotten smaller, taken on this greenish color, and become sweeter-tasting when fully grown. They overrun the stream too quickly though so if we don't eat them regularly they try to walk off and find other places to live, and they can't breathe for long. I was going to see if they do any better in the pond here."

"Luna!" Ginny called excitedly as she landed some distance away.

"Good luck with that," Harry said to Luna before she left to join the other girl and disappeared off somewhere. She'd left the apple though; he picked it up and tossed it from hand to hand.

"Hey Harry!" George called gesturing for him to join them in the air. "Come on."

Since he didn't have anything else to do Harry stood and walked over to where his broom was propped up against a tree next to Ginny's. With a kick off he soon found himself up with the Weasleys. George looked at him curiously.

"What have you got?" the boy asked before Harry tossed him the apple. "Hey Fred, you remember when we used to play with these?" he asked his twin as he passed him the fruit.

"We still can," Fred said with a smile before whipping around and throwing it at Ron's head.

"Oi!" the third boy cried as he ducked out of the way. "What's that for?"

"Bludger!" Fred and George said with twin grins.

"Hey, Harry," Ron said looking in the direction of the Burrow. "Does Hermione have a sister?"

He resisted the urge to look in that direction and only see Bill again.

"Not that I know of, why?" he asked.

"Because it's either that or she's learned to Apparate," George replied for him while looking in the same direction.

"I don't know which would be more frightening," Fred added with a shake of his head.

Finally turning around on his broom, Harry saw that it actually was Hermione walking towards them and just reaching the orchard. Surprised, he quickly found himself slipping off his seat and had to scramble just to keep one hand clutching it. Hermione stopped short with wide eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as he dangled there.

"Hello to you too," she said in return as she hitched up her book bag.

"Er – Hi, but–," Harry started before looking down and dropping the five feet to the ground. "How did you get here?" he asked as his Nimbus took his departure as an excuse to fly itself into the trunk of the nearest tree so that he had to dart off to catch it.

"Apparition," Hermione answered, though whether she'd heard what Fred had said before he didn't know. George though admitted defeat immediately.

"That's it," the boy said with his hands up, "I'm going inside to do homework."

"What? Why?" his twin asked disbelievingly as they both landed.

"She's Apparating before her Second Year," George said gesturing to Hermione. "How do you explain that?"

Hermione seemed keen to do just that, even going so far as to open her mouth before thinking better of it and keeping her silence, which he found exceedingly odd. She'd never been shy of telling anyone exactly how to do anything, even things they already knew, so her not telling them how she got here made it seem fishier than one of Luna's plimpies. And for some reason he couldn't shake the thought that there was something odd about her head, but what it was he couldn't put his finger on.

"Just because I can't explain it doesn't mean anything," Fred groused as he followed his brother off through the trees. "Besides, if we do it now then next year Mum'll be hounding us to do it as soon as we get back and that's no way to spend a summer…"

"Did you really Apparate here?" Ron asked her as he came down and dismounted as well.

"Technically, yes," she answered, drawing herself up defensively in a way that all but shouted at Harry that he was right about his suspicions.

"Technically?" he asked with a curious look.

Hermione looked at him with her patented 'you two just broke the rules' look only for it to falter as she met his eye. Before he could even think about the change it faded away entirely and her eyes flickered towards Ron. Harry was left somewhat stunned; if he'd known that it would have calmed her down this much he would've asked her out a long time ago.

"I say technically because it was through Apparition," she explained. "It'd be closer to say 'I was Apparated' rather than 'I Apparated' though but I don't know if there's a word for that."

"That's side-along Apparition," Ron said looking at her curiously. "It's where a witch or wizard Apparates and takes you along for the ride. But who brought you here?"

"A new friend of mine," she said with a meaningful look at Harry, making him pretty sure that friend was around two feet tall and had a habit of calling her 'Miss Knee.'

"And you didn't tell Fred and George because you didn't know the right word?" Harry asked.

Suddenly a smile spread across her face that did some very pleasant things to his midsection.

"They just said that they were going off to study," Hermione reminded them. "You didn't think I was going to do anything to stop them, did you? I hardly saw them crack a book last year."

"You pranked them," Ron chuckled. "You! Who are you and where's Hermione?"

"I merely let them think what they were already thinking," she said as if pranking was some kind of offense. "Not correcting them isn't what I'd call a prank, and in this case it might actually help them."

"Yes, I'm sure if they study they could be louder than ever," Harry said with a grin.

Hermione, however, was not amused.

"I meant with their grades," she clarified before turning to Ron. "Speaking of which, you need to get started on your homework too. Your mother said you haven't even started yet."

"We've got plenty of time," he protested.

"You may have plenty of time but I may not get to be here every day," she countered. "I'd feel better about you getting that 'A' you need if I look over your answers before you turn them in."

Ron opened his mouth to protest again before closing it to glance at Harry with a bit of a grin.

"Oh, yeah," he said with a look like he was getting away with something right under Professor McGonagall's nose. "I'm going to need to get them all right if I'm going to get that 'A.' Right, Harry?"

Harry felt his stomach drop as he caught what Ron was doing but the redhead pushed ahead by gathering up the rest of the brooms and quickly heading towards the house. This left him with the uncomfortable decision of whether to help Ron by letting Hermione continue to think that he needed what they considered an A or tell her that all Ron really needed amounted to a C. In the end it wasn't even close, though he did feel a pang of guilt at ratting him out.

"Hang on," he said as the reason for her continued smile dawned on him. "You already know all this, don't you?"

"Yes, but thank you for telling me anyway," she said giving him a kiss on the cheek. "You should've seen Professor Flitwick's face though when I asked what I had to do to make sure I got an A in his class," Hermione said with an even bigger smile making the image of their tiny Charms teacher with his head tilted over to one side suddenly pop into his mind. She could probably light him on fire and he'd still give her an O for how well she did it. "Molly also made sure I knew the difference when she told me about her Quidditch rule and suggested I find some way of sending Ron off to study."

"Why would she do that?" Harry asked his face heating up as he suddenly became aware that he was standing very much alone in the middle of an orchard with his girlfriend, who'd just kissed him, while everyone else was far away from them.

"Because she's worried about you," Hermione said with a face full of concern and taking them into a safer though less pleasant area of conversation than he'd been expecting as their feet started moving them slowly towards the Burrow. "She knows this has been a rough summer for you and thinks that you aren't taking it well."

"Well, how would you take it if the person you trusted turned out to be a slimy, two-faced weasel?" he asked not precisely knowing who he meant by that; probably more Dumbledore than Lichfield at the moment.

"I'd most likely think that I wouldn't be able to trust anyone at all," she said rightly. "But Lichfield is supposed to be on your side on this, Harry," Hermione said, letting him know that her little talk with Mrs. Weasley had covered more than just grades. "And while his methods may be a bit… out of the ordinary, fighting with him could be disastrous."

"How could fighting him be disastrous?" Harry asked, though when he thought about it doing so hadn't done Lockhart any favors.

"Because he's your lawyer and we've already seen how this world doesn't have the same professional ethics that ours does," Hermione explained. "What if he stops working for you, or worse, starts working against you?" she asked. "He could throw your case on purpose and you'd be stuck back with the Dursleys forever."

"That's never going to happen," Harry said defiantly, though the possibility that it could felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.

"While it's unlikely after all the effort they've gone through," Hermione agreed, "that's not to say that he won't just quit if he doesn't feel appreciated. Remember, from everything you've said he's doing this because he was your grandfather's friend, not because he's yours. And there are real benefits to be gained by being his friend."

Harry had to admit that until the Sirius Black thing had come up that things had been going pretty well, Lichfield's tight-lipped secrecy aside that is. The fact that Dobby was away from the Malfoys and that he was safe from Dumbledore was due to his work, as well as him knowing about what the old man had done in the past. And it wasn't just him that's benefited; Hermione's made friends with Mipsy, they've learned more about the wizarding world than they ever had at school, and he was even paying for Luna to go to Hogwarts.

His stomach fell again with a lurch. Was Lichfield still going to take care of Luna's education after he yelled at him like that? Hermione was right that the grizzled old bailiff was doing what he did because _'that's what Charlus would do,_' but Harry doubted that his grandfather would've yelled at the man until he'd disappeared right before his eyes. Who was to say what would happen if the man ever came back, or even if he would? Suddenly his complaints didn't seem to matter that much anymore.

Hermione bumped his shoulder to draw him from his thoughts as they reached the edge of the trees.

"So what was it that you and Lichfield fought about?" she asked as she took his hand as they walked. "Molly said that you suddenly got upset and ran from the house."

"It's odd to hear you call her Molly," Harry said to deflect himself away from oddity of holding hands with his best friend and how much he liked it.

"I always got on well with my teachers before, and after our conversation yesterday I thought it might be helpful to have adult friends, outside the parental context," Hermione explained referring to her dad. "Plus, if I called her that then it might be easier for you to make the transition. But no distractions," she chided him with a look that said she didn't really mean it, "we were talking about you."

"Me leaving didn't have anything to do with him, it had to do with Dumbledore," he said as he raked his other hand through his hair. "The fight with Lichfield happened last night."

"Last night?" she asked with a curious look. "When last night? Because I saw him then and he didn't say anything about it."

"What was he doing at your house?" Harry asked trying to put the pieces together.

"Mipsy kind of kidnapped him when I asked if I could see him," Hermione said with a bit of a guilty look as if should have somehow known that was likely to happen when she'd asked. "I wanted to thank him for introducing us and I think she gets a little overeager sometimes," she explained before a disgruntled look settled on her face for a moment for some reason.

"Oh, so that's why he disappeared," he said as things stitched themselves together in his head. "I just thought he got mad and left."

"What was it about though?" she asked.

"It's not important," Harry replied shrugging the whole thing off. _'What did it matter who did what way back when and why?'_ he asked himself. "I just want the whole thing over with."

"Well if it's truly not important then it's no wonder he didn't mention it," Hermione said in a bit more of airy tone as she bumped his shoulder again. "I don't know how old wizarding bailiffs behave but if they're anything like what our version was like they probably wouldn't tell outsiders anything lest it reflect badly on the family," she said with a look that he should make up with Lichfield for whatever it was.

"If it was about Dumbledore though," she continued as her hand left his and she took her book bag off her shoulder to rummage through it. "There's a bit of news on that front," Hermione smiled as she presented him with a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "It looks like Lichfield got that story in the paper really fast."

Any leftover ill feelings Harry had towards the old bailiff dwindled rapidly when he saw a blushing Dumbledore on the front page being proclaimed as a romance writer for the entire world to see. He might not like how the man kept him in the dark about things but he had to admit that when he wanted things done, they got done. Harry chuckled at the thought of what everyone at Hogwarts would say when they got back and saw this.

"Feeling better?" his girlfriend asked with a grin as something else clicked for him.

"Did you do something different with your hair?" he asked.

Hermione's smile hit him full beam, "Actually, yes. It's something that–"

The door to the Burrow bursting open interrupted her and Ron came out with a grin of his own that even from a distance loudly proclaimed that he still hadn't been anywhere near his homework yet.

"Hey Harry!" his ginger-headed friend called. "You've got to get in here; you won't believe it! Dumbledore's been sacked!"

.o0O0o.

It turned out that Dumbledore had not been sacked; he had resigned. And despite Ron saying that it amounted to the same thing, Hermione insisted there was a difference. The only thing that could've made huddling around the wireless with the other Weasleys any better would've been if the old man had stepped down from Hogwarts and not just the Ministry, but all the commentary asking whether this had anything to do with his "best-selling romantic novels" made up for it though.

When Bill left Harry noticed that Mrs. We-Mol-easley looked decidedly uncomfortable during the 'Boy Who Lived' part of the broadcast but soon enough the brief news bulletin was over and the wireless flipped back to some mid-morning soap opera. Fred and George were quickly shooed off to their room after they made jokes about whether 'The Boy Who Lived' series would be made into broadcasts as well. She then carried the wireless with her when she went to the kitchen and left the rest of them to entertain themselves.

With both Percy and Hermione there talk quickly turned to the next school year and Ron seemed to melt away and slide upstairs as if he could somehow be infected by it. With his girlfriend busy giving the older boy her thoughts on what she was looking for in a Defense study group Harry took the opportunity to go and talk to the boy's mother. He did have to double back because he'd left the paper on the couch next to Hermione, but he did get a nice smile from her for the effort.

Mrs. Weasley was hunched over the wireless when he entered the kitchen.

"Oh! Harry, dear," she said starting up with a hand to her chest, "I didn't see you there."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said.

"Nonsense, dear," she said with a wave. "Did you need something?"

"Er – No, it's just…" Harry said as he returned the _Daily Prophet_ to her, his words dying off when he didn't know how to put into words what he wanted to say. "Thanks," he said finally, hoping she knew what he meant.

With a smile she got down to his level and pulled him into a hug. At that moment he didn't know what the difference was between this hug and the last one she'd given him but this one felt so much more embarrassing for some reason. If Fred and George, Hermione, or even Percy came in and saw it Harry didn't know how he'd ever live it down.

"You're very welcome, dear," she said when she finally let him go. "And I just wanted to let you know," the woman said when he turned to go. "If you ever need someone to talk to, you can always come to me. I may not have the right answers all the time," she said with a chagrined look as if grumbling to herself, "but I have a nice big shoulder should you ever need it."

"Er – Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," he said as he flattened his hair.

"Oh, please, dear, it's Molly," Mrs. Weasley said as she stood again.

"I don't know if I'll ever get used to calling you that," Harry said with a shrug.

"Just tuck that behind your ear then," she smiled and patted his head. "You may grow into it."

.o0O0o.

With a burst of speed to rival the best broom, sporty girl Ginevra Weasley darted towards her goal, her flame-colored ponytail streaming along behind her. So far her plan was going great; she had woken up early, dressed to play hard, and even defied her mother when she'd tried to stop her. Everything was going so well that even her brothers had to back down accept her into their game, and though Resentful Ron grumbled the entire time even he couldn't best her at Quidditch – even with that new broom!

And to top it off, Harry had been forced to sit there and watch how much fun they were having without him. This time she was the fun and exciting one while he was the one feeling all alone and left moping by himself. He got to see the fun, wild, and sporty side of her and just when things started to look up for him when Luna arrived she had disappeared with the other girl just as fast as she could.

That was sure to gnaw at him and make him wish that they had stayed, or at least had asked him to come along. Boys were stupid though, and they never saw what was right in front of their faces, so it'd probably take him a while before he got the point. That's where the next part of her plan came in, and it was genius.

Pushing open the door she raced inside, surprising Harry and making him have to dart out of the way before continuing to the living room to sit next to Percy and some wavy-haired girl. With a brief spike of hope she wondered if that was the mysterious Penelope her brother was dating; she couldn't wait to get new sisters. She hadn't been able to get a look at her back at Diagon Alley but this girl looked too young to be a Prefect somehow.

"Ginny, what do you think you're doing?" her mother chided her, instantly putting the plan on the brink of failure.

She was supposed to get the first word in, not become distracted by things that didn't matter. _'Merlin, Ginny, stop ruining things for Ginevra!'_ she mentally thumped herself. She couldn't dangle just out of Harry's reach if she's constantly hanging on every little thing going on around him and what she was doing was far more important than that girl.

Surprisingly, her mother had a torn look on her face as if she didn't know what to say next.

"You're tracking mud all over the floor, dear," she said finally. "I don't mind you playing outside if you want but leave the mess out there. I've got a hard enough time cleaning up after the boys," her mother said, whipping out her wand and vanishing the dirt she'd brought in with her, though her jeans were still a bit wet from the pond.

That hadn't been what she'd been expecting her mother to say at all. She was supposed to come in, ask her question, and – if she was lucky – get what she wanted after promising to be a good little girl inside for the rest of the day. The whole exchange should've been impossible if her mother spoke first, which she did, and she hadn't sentenced her to her room or anything; Ginny really didn't know what to do from this point.

"Can I spend the night at Luna's?" she asked wondering why she wasn't in trouble.

"Oh, certainly, Ginny, dear," her mother said as if wondering if that was the right thing to say. "As long as it's alright with her father," she added before looking to Luna.

"He's quite happy at the moment," airy blonde said, signaling that her dad was sure to agree. "He said he's found a kindred spirit in uncovering all the hidden secrets that the Ministry doesn't want people to know."

"That's nice, dear," her mother said with a polite smile that made Ginny nervous.

It was starting to feel like everything since the moment they'd come in was some kind of trap just waiting to be sprung. _'Why was Mum being so strange?'_ she wondered before darting her eyes to the living room and back. _'Was it because of Penelope?'_

"You two run along now and give Xeno my best," her mother said with a dismissive gesture. "And tell him to call if he needs anything."

After that there was really nothing to do but go back outside, or so she'd thought.

"Hello again, Hermione Granger," Luna said behind her.

With a wave of ice cold dread passing over her she followed her friend's eyes to the girl sitting next to Harry. As the girl smiled in acknowledgment Ginny felt the trap snap shut. How was he supposed to get to know and like her sporty side, and to miss it when she's gone, if that – that – _that girl_ was there to take her place?!

And worse, she couldn't go back on things now without looking stupid! That girl had tricked her somehow! She was going to be forced out of the house while who knows how long that girl would be there with him. It was a disaster!

"Come on," she said to Luna as she spun around to leave. That girl wasn't going to get so much as a 'hello' from her.

To make matters worse, on the small dirt path that'd eventually take you to the muggle village Ginny saw that grumpy old man Harry called a litigator suddenly appear with another one of those little elves and she angled her angry march to take her as far away from them as fast as possible. She wanted to say this day couldn't get any worse but with her luck Harry and that girl would be in a magically binding marriage contract before she even got home! Ginny could only hope that her mother hadn't been lying about those not being used anymore.

"Is something wrong?" Luna asked as she skipped along beside her.

"Yes, we don't talk to her," Ginny told her as they made the trek over to her friend's house. She hadn't planned to leave for hours yet but what was the point in waiting now when staying would be torture? "She's the enemy."

"Has anyone told her that?" the other girl asked as she settled down for the walk. "She was nice when we met before. Easily confused, but nice."

_'Wait,_' Ginny thought, _'She had said "hello again," but how had they had met before? And when?'_ She scoured her memory for any hint but wasn't about to give the girl inside the pleasure of knowing that she didn't know by asking Luna. Precisely how she'd know she didn't know, but she knew that she'd know somehow. And then it clicked, _'The Hopefuls meeting, she must have gone as his date! She's not a Hopeful, and I was going to be; she shouldn't have been there at all! Why couldn't she be some money-grubbing girl and just go home after shopping?'_

How was that girl ahead of her on everything? It just wasn't fair!

.o0O0o.

Compared to Hermione's studying-based take on what she was looking for in a Defense study group, Harry thought his seemed kind of… lacking. Rather than the detailed list of information she wanted on every creature they could encounter – like what they were, where they lived, how to identify them, what they could do that was dangerous, what weaknesses they had, and what you could do to protect yourself against them; all derived, no doubt, from her impromptu tirade against Lockhart's books the other day, though the whole thing with the troll probably helped – his boiled down to "teach me how to survive in a fight."

Perhaps he hadn't really thought about it enough but besides for Fluffy, the-dragon-formerly-known-as-Norbert, and a plant that tried to strangle you the biggest threats he faced last year was the troll and a wizard that had wanted to kill him. Lest he cause the world to explode again and prompt Percy to run around yelling "BREACH!" at the top of his lungs, Harry let the older boy continue to think that Quirrell had acted alone and that it had nothing to do with him being possessed by the disembodied spirit of Voldemort. When he gave his reasons though Percy had a different outlook entirely.

"It's interesting you put it that way, actually," the older boy said as he seemed to mull things over. "That dueling book you let me borrow said pretty much the same thing. The introduction splits things up between Creature combat, where your only real weakness is your own ignorance, and Intelligent combat, where your weakness is their strengths."

"How is that a difference?" the girl between them asked, her keen mind focusing on the tiniest of hairs to split. "Your weakness in both areas is still your own lack of knowledge."

"It's different because Creatures – whether they're trolls, dragons, or bugbears – are always going to be the same," Percy explained. "And once you learn about them you're going to be able to defend yourself against any of them you come across as long as you keep your wits about you. No matter how much you study though you're never going to know if the witch or wizard you're facing has some hidden trick up their sleeve until they use it on you; that's why the writers chose to focus on the wizarding duel as the highest form of combat."

Something odd clicked in the back of his mind.

"Hang on," Harry said poking Hermione in the side and causing her to twitch reflexively. "Are you saying that you didn't read your new books immediately after you got them?" he asked with a smile.

"I was focusing on dark creatures and had more important things on my mind," she said a little less defensively than usual. "Like getting to be here."

Any more talk was cut off by a knock on the door and Harry felt his stomach drop. It was the first time anyone had knocked on that door since Dumbledore. He must not have been the only one to have made the connection since Mrs. Weasley glanced to him on her way to answer it.

"Oh, Mr. Lichfield," she said in an uncomfortable voice that carried more than usual. "What brings you here?"

"Just the usual," the man replied, "Running around, filing papers, checking in with the boss; is he in?"

The change from being 'the boy' to 'the boss' was one that he was strangely uncomfortable with though that probably had to do with the fight that prompted it. It wasn't until he felt a warm reassuring hand stroking his back that he noticed how tense he'd gotten and Harry didn't know if it was that, the sympathetic look Hermione gave him, or just her being there helped the most. He didn't want to say anything in front of Percy and everyone else so he gave her as much of a thankful smile and a nudge as he could muster.

"Since I'm here," the old bailiff said to her as they made their way closer, "I thought I'd remind you and Arthur to stop by the bank at some point so you can set up how you wanted to handle your family's checking and transfer payments before your next lease payment comes due."

If Harry had thought that things couldn't get any more tense and awkward he had been wrong. Mrs. Weasley looked at him and he tried to conjure up everything he could remember about what Lichfield had said to him before. He had been wrong in what he'd told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley?

"I thought you said that we couldn't collect rent until the whole guardianship thing is taken care of," he said curiously; he definitely remembered the man saying that at one point.

"For the people who take you up on the offer to come back to the land, sure," Lichfield agreed. "Since we can't offer them a formal lease until that's resolved we can't really take in rent from them. Everyone who already has a lease though…"

The old bailiff trailed off as his eyes darted between him and Mrs. Weasley. He must have put two and two together because the next moment he put his gnarled poking finger next to his nose and winked and then pointed to him.

"But you wanted a deferment as part of that deal, didn't you?" the man asked in a friendly growl with a bit of a shake to his finger. "It wouldn't surprise me if they forgot to include it," he added before turning to Mrs. Weasley. "One of the gofers in Legal actually lost the agreement we made up the first time around if you can believe it…," Lichfield said as Harry glanced at Hermione.

"It means they won't have to pay while you're here," she translated for him in a whisper.

"–Don't worry about it; I'll look into it," the old bailiff said to Molly, "It's most likely an error on our part. If need be I'll run over an amendment for the boy to sign. That'll take care of it; I'm a little rusty in the management department," he added in an aside before putting a finger to his lips to say they should keep quiet about that.

Anyone with half a brain knew what he was really doing though, Harry had misunderstood him before and now Lichfield was covering for him by making it look like he was the one at fault rather than what it was. That put things into stark relief; Dumbledore hid things to cover his own tracks while Lichfield did it to cover yours. Hermione, who had enough brains to have half a brain tied behind her back, another half left at home, and a third half thinking about something else, still had more than enough left over to figure it out and nudged him in an 'see what I was talking about?' kind of way.

He knew she was right but that didn't make it any easier though. "About last night–" Harry said before the litigator cut him off.

"Let's take a walk, shall we?" Lichfield asked nodding towards the door.

This must've been acceptable to Hermione since she gave him a little push to stand that gave him no choice but to go or to fall off the couch. Even with that, and the supportive smile Molly gave him, walking to the door still felt like being hauled to McGonagall's office – only this time he didn't really know if he'd done anything wrong or if it just felt that way.

Standing in the Weasley's garden again it became rather obvious that neither of them knew how to begin. Was there a way to apologize for what you said but not for the reasons you said it? Harry doubted that _'Sorry for being an ass but I was absolutely right, you know. We friends again?'_ would help matters much. Instead he brought up something else that was on his mind.

"I know you said that it'd be squandering my inheritance," he said by way of breaking the ice, "but I thought about selling – or maybe even just giving – this place to them once this whole thing is over with."

"As a way of saying 'thanks for all your help,' and to get out of the sticky situation of your friends paying you to live here?" Lichfield asked pinning it exactly, though when he said it like that it didn't really sound like the adult thing to do. "It's a nice gesture," the old bailiff said making a gesture of his own, indicating the Weasleys' low stone fence would be a suitable distance away to talk. "They're good people.

"No matter what I may have said before though," the old bailiff continued as their steps took them away from the house, "you shouldn't feel like you're under any obligation to keep things the way they are just because that's the way they always were. Too many people already have that idea stuck in their heads without me putting it in yours, and what's the use of getting you the freedom to do what you want if you don't do what you want with it?"

"Right," Harry said feeling a bit better now that they were actually talking.

"It's an easy thing to set up," he added, "We might have to wait until your next birthday but once we get that guardianship sorted out we can get that taken care of. And speaking of him," Lichfield said dipping his hand in his pocket, "I suppose I can show you this."

'This' turned out to be this morning's _Daily Prophet_.

"Oh yeah, I saw that," he said smiling as the black-and-white Dumbledore blushed at him. "It was on the wireless too; did you hear that he resigned from the Ministry?"

"From the Wizengamot?" Lichfield asked curiously. "I thought it would've been harder than that," he said with a look. "I expected him to fight tooth and nail but I guess Fudge didn't want to back him on it. Still, with him the I.C.W. could pose the biggest problems for us, that's why I filed for an injunction to keep him in the country until your case is settled."

"You think he'll run away?" Harry asked suddenly imagining the headmaster hectically loading up trunks full of socks and books and dragging them away just one step ahead of a mob of angry villagers.

"Less that than finding him under arrest and shipped off to the Continent for trial," the bailiff said with a wave. "This whole Stone thing has really fouled things up and made it a lot more complicated than it needs to be, and if the old man gets pulled away we may never be able to undo what he's done."

"What do you mean?" he asked as they reached the fence, feeling like he'd just swallowed one of the stones that made it.

"Well, if the I.C.W. gets their hands on him they're not likely to let him out to represent himself and you'll be hard-pressed to find someone willing to represent him if he's already in jail for something else," Lichfield explained. "That means that they could declare you fit to be your own man but we'd miss out on recouping your losses because our case against him is stalled. There are still pending lawsuits on known Death Eaters because the cases against them can't go forward; the Ministry was so quick to throw them in Azkaban that it ended up hurting the victims again."

"That's horrible," Harry said.

"Yeah, the system's broken, but no one in power has ever felt the need to fix it," the older man said. "In cases like that the best you can hope for is that their families declare them legally dead and the Wizengamot orders the inheritors to settle."

"How can you just make someone dead when they're not dead?" he asked curiously.

"You mean besides killing them?" Lichfield asked with a twisted grin. "Relax," the man said as he sat on the Weasleys' fence, "it's just a simple legal procedure that proclaims that as far as the law is concerned they're considered dead, whether or not they actually are."

"Oh," Harry said as he joined him on the small wall.

"It doesn't actually kill them, it just frees up their estate to be inherited," his litigator explained. "It's typically reserved for immediate family members to use on those who're sent to Azkaban, because more than likely they're never coming out. The Ministry did do a blanket one after the war though for everyone who disappeared when You-Know-Who was killing people, but I guess that was them tidying up loose ends so people could move on."

"But what if they're not really dead?" he asked.

"Then they'd better hope that no one kills them before they get it reversed," Lichfield replied with a look, "You can't go to jail for killing a dead man. But speaking of technicalities, I filed your case against Dumbledore today. The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will want to talk to you to make sure this is what you want, and after that the timing of things will depend on the Wizengamot."

"Right," Harry said numbly as the reality of things finally hit him.

"I can try to keep you out of it as much as possible," the old bailiff said, "but with your popularity and his, odds are that they'll want to drag you in so they can gawk at you for a while. And that's not even mentioning what could happen when the _Prophet_ gets a hold of this."

Harry felt his stomach drop even more. He hadn't considered that he might join Lockhart and Dumbledore on the front page. Suddenly, never leaving the fence seemed like a really good idea.

"To manage how that's handled I made a deal with a certain reporter," Lichfield explained. "I tell them information in secret and they don't bother you trying to get it."

"Mr. Lovegood?" he asked wondering if the wizarding world was really as small as it seemed since he remembered that the man had something to do with publishing.

"No, this one's less savory," the litigator replied as if to say that it'd be best not to ask.

"Are you really paying for Luna to go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked hopefully.

"McGonagall tell you about that, did she?" Lichfield said with a raised eyebrow a moment before he gave a dismissive wave. "I had it lying around, so I figured that I might as well," the man said with a gruff voice that Harry was willing to wager was hiding the fact that the man was doing it for him more than he was for her.

"Thanks," he told the man anyway since he deserved it. Strangely, it also made what came next easier to say. "I'm sorry I blew up at you last night," Harry said finally.

"Bah, don't be," the old bailiff said shrugging it off. "It wasn't exactly the best way to bring it up, and I can't say that I hadn't earned the rest of it either. Our position might be that you being twelve should mean that you're old enough to go off on your own but that doesn't make it any easier figuring out what to tell you and what you're better off not having to worry about."

"Maybe, but I'm tired of not knowing things and then having them sprung on me," he said stubbornly. "I know about the protection Dumbledore gave to the Dursleys."

"Do you?" Lichfield asked looking at him oddly. "How the hell you know that?"

"Bill showed me earlier."

"Huh, that kid works pretty quick," the older man said appraisingly. "I found it the other day when I looked into those relatives of yours and what connection they had to Dumbledore. I found a letter he left when he dropped you off on their doorstep, explaining what was going on."

"Can I see it?" Harry asked.

"I'd prefer not; at least not right now," Lichfield replied before gesturing to the house. "It still has whatever enchantment that is on it, and I know for a fact that it's still working since it applied itself to your cousin while I was there. Once it's broken, or we know for sure what it's supposed to do, it might be safe to let you touch it. Will that do for you? Or I could copy it down, I suppose."

"No, that's alright," he replied not really knowing what he wanted.

"You're not really missing much," the bailiff said. "It's just a general rigmarole with no real substance to it. I could read it a hundred times and still not understand how the man could have left you with people like that."

It was then that something that'd been bothering him for a while bubbled up to the surface.

"How did you know Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked looking up at him.

Lichfield looked at him as if still struggling with how much to tell him.

"It was at your grandparents' funeral," he said gruffly before clarifying, "your mother's parents; they died around Christmas in your parent's seventh year. She and James had gotten together some time before after he'd chased her for years, and he was anxious to introduce her to his parents, so he arranged for her to visit them that holiday. That's where she was when she learned…"

Lichfield trailed off for a moment and Harry didn't need the words to know how bad of a Christmas that would've been.

"Your aunt said that it was a drunk in one of those automocars," the man said when he continued. "Naturally, the family went with her and paid their respects, along with some of your parents' friends," Lichfield paused a moment and gave him a good look before going on. "Your aunt wasn't doing so well and there was a misunderstanding over what magic couldn't do–"

He didn't have to say what that would be; Harry already knew.

"It was obvious that it was the grief talking on her part, and we likely could've talked her around if it wasn't for that great oaf butting in and making everything worse," the old bailiff said. "I don't think they talked much after that. I don't know where they lived, or even remember where they're buried, but I could try to find out if you want."

"N–," was the only sound he could make before his eyes burned and it felt like an invisible snitch lodged itself in his throat. It helped to turn away so that he wasn't looking at anything in particular. When he could speak again he asked, "Where are my parents?"

Lichfield was so quiet that for a while Harry wondered if he was going to respond at all.

"They're behind this little church in Godric's Hollow," the man said finally. "A cozy place, though not what I would've chosen. The house your family lived in for a while is there too," he said, speaking into the continued silence. "After his parents died I don't think James could bring himself to stay in their house. We spoke by mail after that; I didn't even know where he'd gone. I didn't blame him; it wasn't a time for trusting people."

"I want to see them," Harry said. "Not – not now," he clarified knowing that there was no way he'd be up for that for a while, "but… sometime."

Lichfield nodded. "I always found that cold and miserable weather was good for that."

He couldn't bring himself to nod but knew he didn't have to. Lichfield would take care of it.

.o0O0o.

As she looked out the window to watch how the reconciliation was getting on she couldn't help but hear the crass commercialism leap out from what the wizarding world classified as 'quality mid-morning entertainment.'

"The cold touch of your skin has never failed to make my heart beat faster. Faster than the fastest of brooms!" the witch on the wireless said breathlessly. "–The all-new Nimbus 2001 is on sale now at Quality Quidditch Supplies. Dreadford, you make me feel so alive I could die!"

"Und dat's vhy we shuldn't be togezher, Trella," the vampire lead said with an accent as thick as it was fake. "You aura like a Blood-flavored lollipop, und gazing upon you I haff nevar velt so dead inside. But you aura my life now. I dun't zeem to ve strung enouff to stay avay frum you anamoor."

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and silently hoped that it was only the possibility for further news that kept Ron's mum glued to the radio like that. How anyone could be so slack-witted as to actually enjoy that drivel was beyond her. It seemed to numb her mind a little more with each passing second that it came as a relief when the woman turned it down somewhat and made her way over to the window.

"Oh, don't worry about them, dear," the older woman said as she too looked out on the pair that sat on the low stone fence and talked. "They'll be thick as thieves again in no time," she said with a reassuring smile. "Men are all the same; they have to do things wrong half a hundred times before they figure it out."

"Two hundred when it's my dad," Hermione said glad that the woman hadn't taken her sudden appearance today amiss, "but I think he does it on purpose just for laughs."

"He certainly seemed the excitable type when he introduced himself the other day, but I thought it was the muggle in him," Mrs. Weasley said as she bustled her way into the cozy kitchen. "Would you care for some tea, dear?"

"Only if it's not any trouble," she replied a little anxiously, not wanting to push things too far.

Although she had always been more comfortable with adults than with people her own age, suddenly popping up out of nowhere and simply deciding that you're going to be friends with your friends' mother was more than a little presumptuous. The older woman though seemed to have a very different view of things.

"It's no trouble at all, dear," Mrs. Weasley said with a wave and a moment later Hermione could only marvel at how quickly and effortlessly the practiced wand flicks and waves had two steaming hot cups of black tea prepared, even without ever saying an incantation. "I hardly ever get visitors and we had so little time to get to know each other earlier," the woman said gesturing to the large wooden table with the tea as she returned. "Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself? It's rather early for it but have you thought on what you'd like to do once you leave Hogwarts?"

The question made her pause for a moment as she took her seat.

"Actually, I'm not quite sure," she said honestly as the woman handed her her tea and sat across from her. "I'd like to do something that'd have a large positive social impact. So much of the time I set aside last year to learn about wizarding society though was taken up by other things, but I get the impression that there are several areas that could benefit from such activism. Precisely what form it'd take or how I could go about it I don't rightly know as yet though."

From the slightly wide-eyed expression on Mrs. Weasley's face Hermione didn't think that this was the sort of answer the woman had been expecting at all. In an effort to smooth things over she took a sip of her tea and tried to pretend that she hadn't said anything out of the ordinary at all, because for her it certainly wasn't. Harry may have been right after all; perhaps trying to be friends with adults was always going to be awkward.

"Well it certainly seems like a very long career in the Ministry is in your future," the woman said finally. "It looks as though half of mine have their minds set on Quidditch though. What about you, dear, have you taken it up?"

This time it was Hermione's turn for the wider eyes.

"Watching is far more enjoyable than flying," she replied earnestly, "though even that can be nerve-wracking sometimes. Those classes they gave us at school were more than enough for me; I prefer to keep my feet on the ground."

"Well, on that we can certainly a–," Mrs. Weasley cut off as the wireless blared out a series of quick bugle bursts. "Oh, sorry, dear, it's another news bulletin," she said quickly as she pulled out her wand again and gave it a flick.

"It's pure pandemonium here in Diagon Alley as shoppers scatter and eaves ignite!" the news announcer proclaimed as their tea sat forgotten. "Just moments ago a roar and a blast of what appeared to be dragonfire erupted out of Gringotts Bank but what prompted this act we don't yet know. I'm going now to try to get a word with one of the Aurors outside," the man reported above the sound of ragged breathing and hurried feet as Mrs. Weasley's face went pale.

"You there!" the man cried, finding his target in the intense background noise of the alley. "Merlin's beard, folks, it's Alastor Moody. What's going on, sir? What can you tell us about what happened here?"

"Nothing's happened and the only thing going on is you getting your butt back inside or down to the Leaky Cauldron so you can make your way home," a harsh gravelly voice even worse than Lichfield's said.

"You have Aurors running around all over the place," the announcer countered, "and that lot in front of the bank look like they're drawn up for war. Is the Ministry attacking the goblins?"

"No one's attacking anyone," the man he called Moody growled. "Now you get your ass back inside before I remove it."

"Well, there you have it, folks!" the announcer said as the din was cut down by the sound of a closing door. "Something bizarre and potentially violent is going on and the Ministry is strangely silent. It's certainly an exciting news day here at the WWN," the man said as if happy not to have had the day off.

"I'm sure the Ministry will have a statement for us shortly and we'll bring that to you just as soon as we get it," the man continued. "If even half the rumors swirling around are true I'm looking forward to hearing about today's Wizengamot as well, so make sure to stay tuned as we'll have updates for you throughout the day! Until then, this is Andy Applebottom, returning you to your regularly scheduled programming."

As a few more bugle blasts sounded from the wireless she and Mrs. Weasley shared the same shocked look before the woman ran off towards the stairs with a shout of "Bill!" Her first reaction though was to go off and find Harry and Mr. Lichfield; surely the older man would know what was going on. Harry's face through the window as they walked back made her stop.

_'What did Lichfield say to him?'_ she wondered as she wrenched open the door and ran outside. Harry looked like someone had told him that his dog had just died. "Mrs. Weasley needs to see you immediately," she told the older man when she got to them, "Something's going on at the bank."

With a look of curious concern Lichfield walked into the house, leaving them alone.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione asked only to be immediately wrapped in his arms.

Out of all the hugs they'd had this was the first one he ever initiated, so it took her a moment to remember that she was supposed to be hugging him back. When she did though the worry she'd been trying not to think about disappeared entirely. What did it matter that she'd promised to run from monsters if Harry needed her here? They were only dragons after all.

"Are you alright?" she asked when his arms started to slacken and pulled back a little so that she could see him properly.

"I'm fine," he said more softly than usual.

Harry certainly didn't look fine in her opinion though. He was better than he was, sure, but still not fine with whatever it was and that had her conflicted about what she should do to help. Part of her wanted to ask him what it was and really dig into it so that he really would be fine once it was done but another part wanted him to be comfortable enough with her so that he voluntarily opened up to her.

Being honest with herself though that latter part was throttling the first and it had nothing to do with any logical reason why. It was winning because she was sad that Harry didn't already feel that way about her. She tried to tell herself that it was ridiculous and that they'd only just became a couple but the feeling stubbornly refused to leave, which in turn told her how important she really felt it was.

_'He'll get there,_' Hermione told herself as she gave him the sympathetic smile she thought he'd need. She then moved so that she could lead him back towards the house, still lashed to his side with an arm around his waist. At least she hoped he got there, she amended; otherwise she'd have to hunt down those Dursleys herself.

.o0O0o.

Walking into the Burrow with his girlfriend, Harry had difficulty making sense of what was happening in front of him. The three adults entering the kitchen area were talking over each other more than talking to each other but that didn't seem to stop them from continuing. It was like walking into the midst of a conversation that was happening completely out of order though so it all made for one big mess.

From what he could pick out, Lichfield was asking Molly about what she heard on the wireless, Molly was asking Bill if what she heard was true, and Bill was trying to confirm it with Lichfield without having to answer his mother while also not getting any answers in return. Meanwhile Harry didn't have a clue about what was going on. Eventually Lichfield vowed to get to the bottom of it and stuck his head into emerald floo flames.

And while this may have been a small step towards sanity Fred, George, Ron, and Percy had all picked that moment to come down and ask what all the commotion was about. It fell to Mrs. Weasley to start the tale from the beginning, helped out – or possibly hindered – by Hermione chiming in to correct things and to point out that the broadcast really hadn't had much news in it at all besides the fact that something had happened and presumably had something to do with the bank, a dragon, and the Ministry. By the time they finished Lichfield had pried his head out of the floo, though he did look particularly green around the gills.

"What's going on at the bank?" Bill asked.

"Hang on to your broom," a sickly-looking Lichfield replied from his sitting spot on the floor as his hands went to his head. "Let me make sure that my head is still on the right way."

The poor man got no rest though for the very next moment the floo flared and Mr. Weasley fell on top of him. Harry would've laughed but it was all too surreal; it was like some giant had picked everything up and turned it upside down, and then shook it several times for good measure. Mrs. Weasley darted over to help her husband as the two men untangled themselves and tried to stand.

"Arthur," Molly said as she dusted him off, "did you hear what happened?"

"The dragon attack on Diagon Alley?" he asked. "Absolutely."

"Is anyone dead?" one of the twins asked.

"With all due respect, Dad," Bill said, ignoring the grisly question. "For all we know it could've been the Ministry attacking them."

"Well, not with the way the Ministry behaved," his father countered. "From where I sat it was clear that no one knew anything about it until it happened. The Minister called for an immediate vote on some emergency measures and evacuated everyone but the senior staff out of the building. It was lucky no one got trampled."

"Surely the Ministry would be safe," Mrs. Weasley said as she seemed to check to make sure her husband still had all his appendages. "What about the Muggle Protection Act you've been working on, surely that got its vote?"

"Muggle Protection Act?" Hermione asked, begging for clarification that never came.

"Thankfully, no," the man replied with an odd look as he smoothed his hair over his bald patch. "As soon as the _Prophet_ named Dumbledore as some silly romance writer I knew that we were in big trouble," he said making Harry wonder if he could have anything go right without causing a hundred other things to go wrong. "And once Dingle was barred and Dumbledore forced to resign the whole thing was doomed. I guess I can thank whatever happened in the Alley for saving us from total embarrassment."

"So what did you discover?" Bill asked Lichfield again.

"A fat lot of nothing except what it feels like to swirl your head around a thousand times and run into a bunch of mattresses," the irritated litigator replied. "I knew they were restricting floo access but I assumed they were leaving one open for emergencies. How are they supposed to–?"

A blur of black and a _crash!_ sent shards of broken glass flying from the nearest window as everyone jumped in alarm as whatever it was thudded heavily to the floor and started shrieking. It turned out to be a large black owl with a strangely shaped rock attached to its feet, though why anyone would want to mail something like that was beyond him. Bill certainly had a heck of a time getting it from the excitable bird which seemed to be all flailing wings, talons, and beak.

Once it had drawn enough blood from the beleaguered Bill the owl flew off leaving more than just its oddly-shaped rock behind. Lichfield repaired the window as Arthur put the rock on the table and turned it to get a better look while Molly looked to her son's hand. The curse-breaker seemed to think a stylized seashell on a thin leather strap was more important though. Suddenly the new angle shifted how the odd rock appeared to him and Harry knew exactly what it was.

"Why would anyone send us a stone goblin head?" he asked curiously.

"I think the stranger question would be why is an owl traveling by portkey in the first place?" Bill added.

"How else are we supposed to talk to you people without going there ourselves?" Barchoke's voice said emanating the stone goblin's mouth-like slit. "We certainly weren't going to wait hours for the owl to get there on its own and we had a frumpy Frenchman on hand to whip this up. Now where's Lichfield? I don't know how much time we have."

"Right here," the old bailiff replied. "You knew where I was going to be, you didn't have to scare that bloody bird half to death trying to find me. Why didn't you just use the floo?"

"That's what I asked," the stone head wheezed in a different voice before providing an answer in yet another one.

"The Floo Network is not a part of Gringotts Bank," the third voice informed them. "Since it is maintained and controlled by the Ministry of Magic, we must consider it suspect since it could be monitored or removed without our knowledge."

"A very sensible precaution, Overseers," Lichfield said, giving everyone shushing gesture to keep them quiet as many of them took seats at the table. "We heard there was a disruption at the bank. Is everyone alright?"

"No thanks to the Ministry it seems," Barchoke groused. "An auror tried to attack the teller we had stationed outside and it was only because he ran and the man tripped that he wasn't successful. Bankor's indisposed so we need you to come in so we can formulate some kind of response."

"And the dragon wasn't response enough?" the bailiff asked.

"The dragon was a strictly defensive measure," the third goblin voice informed them.

"How is a dragon defensive?" Mr. Weasley asked astonishedly.

"Well, if you were going to be attacked in your home wouldn't you want a dragon by the door?" Barchoke asked. "That auror blew it open so the least they deserved was a warning not to go any further. A lot of us have had our fill with the Ministry today though; that Umbridge woman threatened to kill Overseer Gutripper and tried to steal our island out from under us."

"What island is this?" Arthur asked a moment before Lichfield said, "I'm sure the Ministry will appreciate that you're trying to maintain the peace," which got him odd looks from several people there.

"If the aurors have you surrounded it might be difficult getting in," the old man continued, "but I think I can do it. I'm supposed to be meeting with that Skeeter woman to fill her in on our side of the whole Stone incident though and she's not someone you want to cross unless you fancy the whole country turning against you based on what she writes."

"Hang on a minute," the wheezy goblin voice said before the stone head went silent.

"That's got to be the weirdest thing I've ever seen," Ron said uncomfortably while poking at the head.

"Why?" Hermione asked, "It's essentially a magical telephone."

"Whatever it is, can't they make the lips move at least?"

"Are you talking about those things that go 'ring' and talks to people?" Mr. Weasley asked her jovially. "I always thought you should yell with those, just to be sure they hear you."

"Please don't," Barchoke's voice said, "You're loud enough as you are. Is Lichfield still there?"

"Nope, I wandered off," the old man winked to Harry with a grin and getting a chuckle from the other guys.

"Funny," Barchoke said humorlessly. "When you get back tell yourself to bring Skeeter in with you. Slaggran thinks we can give her a much bigger story tied into yours that she can't get anywhere else – filled with dragons, explosions, and death; what more could she ask for?"

"And make sure she brings a camera," the wheezy voice added, making Harry wonder what the heck they've been getting up to.

"Oh-oh-oh! And is the Weasley there?" the head said with a new voice Harry remembered hearing once before.

"Which one?" Lichfield asked scanning the room. "There's like seven of them here."

"Is the really?" the voice asked happily. "Oh! We should be collecting them!"

"Maybe later," Barchoke's voice told this new one. "Which one do you want now?"

"I think he means me, sir," Bill answered for him, though none of those last few statements made Mrs. Weasley look happy at all.

"Oh yes, that's the Bill," the odd voice said, "He could be being useful. Can you be moving an island?"

"I – doubt it, sir," the curse-breaker said dubiously.

"Oh," the voice said dispiritedly. "It be no worry," it immediately recovered, "We be finding something."

"Oh, I see where – Yes, bring him too," Barchoke agreed. "I think we've got a workable plan forming here; I'll tell you when you get here and we know what the heck we're doing. Oh, and don't forget to bring the head," the goblin added. "We need to reattach it. I'll see you soon."

After that the stone head fell silent again.

"Are they gone?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Better safe than sorry," Lichfield said as he picked up the goblin head, walked to the door, and set it outside. "You might want to get anything you want to bring with you," he said to Bill once the door was closed.

"You're not really going to help those goblins, are you?" Mrs. Weasley asked her son when he stood to go upstairs.

"What do you think my job is, Mum?" Bill replied with a grin.

"But they're at odds with the Ministry," she pointed out.

"Half the time they're at odds with the Egyptian one too but that doesn't stop me from going to work," he replied to his mother's shocked face. "A government's a government, but a job's a job," Bill said, leaving no doubt which he valued more. "Besides, this is what a promotion looks like. If things go well I might be able to renegotiate my contract," he smiled.

"You'll want legal help for that," Lichfield said smoothly.

"You offering?" Bill asked.

"My fee's workable," the old man shrugged.

.o0O0o.

Cornelius thought he had everything wrong set to be deflected away from the Ministry and onto Dumbledore but as the hours passed everything had gone bad and then went worse. Failure with Flamel, disaster in Diagon Alley, panicking people everywhere, and now some puffed-up Parisian was on his way to his office. He had to get something sorted out before he got here. At least Scrimgeour had held his ground at Hogwarts and sent those busybodies from the I.C.W. packing.

That, Lucius's plan to back Dumbledore into resigning whether he wanted to or not, and getting those emergency banking measures passed had been the only things that had gone right today so he didn't know whether it all amounted to a wash yet or not. Hope wasn't lost yet though, if he could spin one of these problems around he just might end up ahead in this.

_'It's too bad Lucius isn't here,_' the Minister thought as he looked to the relevant department heads. _'I could use his advice on this besides "admit nothing and keep everyone calm._"' Cornelius knew that he should have told the man to stay but it was hard to say no to anything when you were in their debt. _'Him and his "other concerns,_"' he scoffed. _'If they have anything to do with Gringotts then he's welcome to them. I'm not going anywhere that has a dragon in its lobby._'

"No, no, I absolutely agree with you, Amelia," he said to the stern-faced woman. She had taken a very hard line when it came to Diagon Alley and she wasn't about to let one of her officers be thrown to the mob just to smooth things over. "Dolores had no right to order an attack like that and it was good of your men to stop it."

"But Minister, we must attack them!" the pink and panicking pint-sized empress in question cried from the armchair she'd taken on the other side of his desk. "They are dangerous and defiant. They must be punished."

"That doesn't give you the authority to order them all to be killed!" Cornelius said banging his fist down on the desk in a most satisfying way. It hurt his hand but he liked that feeling of power it gave. "You bungled this from the very beginning. One more failure like this and I'm of half a mind to exile you to Zanzibar or see you out of the Ministry entirely. You were sent to present our claim to the island, not to start a war. We're supposed to be fighting for British sovereignty against the I.C.W., not mired in an internal conflict with the Goblin Nation."

"But calling them that–"

"–Let's us get away with not giving them anything they want," he said with a scowl, overriding her protests. "Better for them to be an insignificant people within Britain that handles their own affairs than to have them run off to form their own country like the Irish. I will not be known as a Minister of Magic that loses even one inch of British soil and the last thing we need is to unite the goblins and I.C.W. against us or we'll find ourselves under goblin rule. What are we doing to prevent that?" Cornelius asked, turning to Mockridge.

"Our best way forward is to treat them all as isolated incidents and defend them all separately," the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office replied. "Umbridge was sent to inform them of island's status; _they_ were responsible for turning things in any way violent. Likewise, Diagon Alley had nothing to do with the Ministry," the man went on to say. "It was a trainee that believed he was acting under orders, but no such orders were authorized by our government. For all we know he may have been Confunded."

"You think they'll believe that?" the Minister asked.

"No," the other man replied, "but our people might and it'll buy us time to sway the I.C.W. to our side as new facts drip out."

"That's completely unethical," Madam Bones said disapprovingly. "We can't lie to the public. The boy was misguided but he was acting under orders. He can't be at fault if those orders were unauthorized; he couldn't have known that. Dolores is the one to blame there."

"Wha-what?!" the other woman said, practically croaking the words as her eyes bulged.

"–She was clearly out of her depth in handling these matters and she let her personal animus against the goblins override her professional obligation to maintain peaceful ties between peoples," Amelia went on to say. "However, if what Dolores said about those dragons is true then a case could be made that she was so scared out of her wits that she didn't know what she was saying once she portkeyed to safety."

"That's preposterous!" Dolores declared, not seeing the partial way out the woman offered her.

"And she _still_ doesn't know what she's saying," Mockridge agreed.

Cornelius didn't like that developing narrative at all. It meant the whole thing was still his fault for sending Dolores there in the first place and he doubted very much that anyone would appreciate it if he said that he was only doing what Lucius said he should, least of all Lucius.

"It may end with her having to resign," the other wizard continued. "But better that than what the goblins are demanding, and we still have five people's lives hanging in the balance."

"Wait – what do you mean?" Cornelius asked.

Amelia was one step ahead of him though. "You left your escort behind?!" the woman thundered at Umbridge. "Those Hit Wizards have families to think of."

"Dragonfire, phony gold, aurors run amok, and now this," the Minister pleaded. "This is all too much. Please tell me those men aren't dead."

"They're not dead," Mockridge said, allowing him to breathe easier for the moment. "The goblins say they've taken them into custody for trying to steal 'the Isle of Gringotts' – what they're calling the island Flamel was on. They're also refusing to discuss anything else until 'the other three criminals' are brought to them."

"That island belongs to the Ministry," Dolores maintained. "We can't steal what already belongs to us."

"What three criminals are they talking about?" Cornelius asked. "Dumbledore? The Flamels?"

"No, the Flamels they have, or so they claim, and they consider Dumbledore an I.C.W. concern," Mockridge said with a look. "Who they want is Umbridge, that trainee, and whoever ordered the attack. They don't know the first and last are one and the same though. If they did they might agree to accept her as a trade and let everyone else go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dolores said, her panicked spittle flying. "I've done nothing wrong!"

"This is a much harder line than anything we've heard from the goblins before," Amelia said, dismissing Umbridge's outburst.

"We've heard rumors of a new Grand Overseer–" Mockridge said.

"Barfchoke," Umbridge sneered, saying a name very similar to the one that had met with him the day before.

"–and with all this commotion, this goblin seems to be in a much better position than any of his predecessors," he continued. "I've looked at what he gave Dolores and those seals check out. Crouch is investigating exactly what it'll mean for us if it holds up but I don't know how they got Ministry's seal at all. No one with the authority to do so would've agreed to what it says but there was an hour or so where there was no one in the Office when the person we had working there quit, so it might've been possible that someone sneaked in to do it."

"You think a goblin sneaked past our security?" Cornelius asked amazed, though Amelia looked doubtful.

"I told you, we should attack them!" Umbridge interrupted.

The Minister pummeled his desk again, hard.

"Dolores! That is enough out of you!" he tried to cry roughly though the searing pain in his hand made it come out as a bit of a croak. Perhaps he was getting a little carried away with all this hitting. "Leave! Now! And think about what you've done."

The pudgy woman had been his stalwart ally but with her eyes bulging and mouth gaping all she looked like now was a squashed frog. Lucius had been right about her, her dedication was to be lauded but her stupidity meant she couldn't be trusted except for the most basic of tasks – but now he knew that she couldn't even be trusted with that! She'd be the end of them all if given half a chance.

"Go!" he said again, waving his hurting hand dismissively in an attempt to make it feel better.

Dolores looked around and saw no sympathetic faces here. With nothing else to do after such a frank dismissal she retreated as fast as she could. Cornelius wondered if what she's done wrong has even started to dawn on her. No one put him at risk of looking stupid and left without feeling stupid themselves.

When the door clicked shut he asked Mockridge again, "You think a goblin sneaked past our security?"

"It's possible, but not likely," Mockridge pointed out as if the disturbance had never happened at all. "We need some time to figure out what happened and digest what it means. Hopefully we can get it tossed out or Crouch will be an even bigger pain in the ass than he already is."

"You don't think he'd really support…," the Minister said before trailing off when he knew the man was right. The Wizengamot could pass a law mandating that all witches and wizards had to paint themselves blue, get married, and immediately start producing children and the prig would propose to the first woman he saw while dousing himself with paint. Even if everyone else refused to acknowledge the law existed and protested through the streets until it was repealed that man would follow it, so why wouldn't he support an agreement that everyone hated?

"The good thing is that we should be able to sit on most of this until at least Monday," Mockridge said as he smoothed his robes. "There's already been enough excitement today to fill half a dozen _Prophets_, and the _Prophet_ doesn't know anything about Flamel or what happened on that island. I say we put out the statement on Diagon Alley and leave it at that for now."

"Yes, yes. A careful approach would be best," Cornelius agreed, thinking that the man's strategy would be closest to what Lucius advised. "That will give us several days to look into things and work these goblins and international types around to our way of thinking before we have to go public with anything. Tell Crouch that we're going off the assumption that the seal was illegally obtained, that should get him in the proper state of mind until then."

"And the hit wizards the goblins captured?" Amelia asked, her face a thunderhead. "What are we supposed to tell their families when they don't come home tonight?"

"That – umm," the Minister stammered.

"–They're on assignment," Mockridge offered.

"–Yes, they're on assignment," Cornelius repeated, hoping that everyone took it to be his idea all along.

"I detest all this lying to the public," the hard-nosed woman said in response. "But given the current climate I can see the need to allow things to calm down for a while. You will push for my men to be released," she said to Mockridge in a no-nonsense tone, "and I don't care if you have to truss Dolores up and drag her to them in order to do it."

"Of course," Mockridge said with a smile that showed too many teeth. "The safety of your men is my primary concern."

As much as Cornelius liked the other man, Cuthbert really was only a slightly above average liar when it came to his equals. It didn't stop Amelia from accepting it though, or at least pretending that she did since it wouldn't change anything. He didn't particularly care as long as she didn't cause problems. He hated problems, mostly because people kept expecting him to fix them.

"Withdrawing the aurors from the Alley will show the goblins that it was an accident," Amelia went on to say. "Scrimgeour could use them to rotate the protection of Hogwarts more regularly, that's if you're still set on allowing Dumbledore to return there?" she asked incredulously.

"Once I show this Frenchman what's what and you make sure Dumbledore won't run off, yes," the Ministerly Minister said in all his Ministerliness. "It'll show the I.C.W. that we're not to be trifled with."

"Keeping some of the aurors there would soothe the wizarding public and serve to put pressure on the goblins," Mockridge countered. "Given time I could persuade them to lower, if not drop their demands entirely, in return for removing them. And, once we talk the I.C.W. around to our way of thinking, that agreement of theirs will be torn up and any pretense they had of holding those hit wizards will vanish."

"I like that idea," Cornelius said as everything seemed to come together at last.

"And how are we supposed to keep those aurors out there, and around Hogwarts, full time?" Amelia asked.

"I don't care. How am I supposed to know?" the Minister said with a dismissive wave. "Stick people from Magical Maintenance in those robes for all I care, it's not like anyone can tell the difference. Just see to it, Amelia, we've got a great deal of work to do," he said tersely.

The Head of the D.M.L.E. stood and looked down at him. "Some of us do, at least," she said before turning and walking out.

"I swear, half the time I think that woman's after my job," Cornelius said once the door was closed.

"I doubt she would take it," Mockridge said consolingly. "Even if the Wizengamot were foolish enough to offer it to her, the Minister of Magic doesn't have the luxury of her pious principles. Sooner or later she'll have to learn that a little bit of lying is always for the best."

He certainly nodded his agreement with that only to be cut off when there was a knock on the door.

"Quick!" he motioned for Mockridge to leave as he stood and walked towards the door. "You go take care of all that. I've got a Frenchman to dance around with."

The two men got there just in time for his secretary to open the door and announce the visitor.

"Mon-sewer Jon Olive-veer–" the worthless woman said before the Frenchmen did it himself.

"Jean-Olivier Delacour, Inspecteur Général Adjoint de la Confédération Internationale des Sorciers," the pudgy man said as he swept the cloak off his shoulders and casually tossed it to Mockridge as if he were some sort of servant.

Cornelius had to instantly reevaluate the man. The man may be portly, but so was he. His robes were well-worn for this time of the day, but today was a day like no other. And clearly this man was one of bearing and breeding that'd rival Lucius himself, though he'd never tell him that. Desperately he tried to conjure up anything that might sway the man an inch.

"Why 'ave I been made to wait?" the Frenchman asked haughtily as if looking at scum that had gotten on the bottom of his shoes. "And what ees ze meaning of keeping Dumblydore away from us? Ze man at 'Ogwarts was very rude. Ees zis 'ow you treat foreign dignitaries een Eengland?"

Once again Cornelius waved Mockridge away and fastened on a smile as the door closed.

"Visits from foreign dignitaries are usually arranged well ahead of time," he said as politely as he could as he gestured to one of the plush seats. "And typically they aren't conspiring with goblin-run banks to take us unawares or move with an army at their backs."

He knew at once that the man was sufficiently politically minded to realize just how badly saying it that way made it seem. Indeed, he'd think less of the man for not seeing the quagmire before he'd stepped in it if it hadn't taken Lucius to show it to him in the first place. On second thought though the man was French and didn't deserve that much consideration.

"We were speeking to zose who were speeking to us," the man said delicately as he took his seat. "Eet was not for us to eenform you, we zought you knew. Our only conzern was apprehending ze creeminals and ze security of gold, so of course we go to banks."

"Be that as it may," Cornelius said as he walked back to sit at his desk. "The Wizengamot was furious; some of them wanted to attack without delay. You've heard what happened in Diagon Alley?"

"I may 'ave 'eard something..." the Frenchman said noncommittally.

"Dragonfire scorching buildings, people thrown to safety, panic, lost tax revenue everywhere," he said dramatically, barely having to exaggerate at all. "It was madness, and you had a hand in it by putting everyone on edge. How am I supposed to run a country that way?"

"Let us not talk about ze past," Whatever-his-name-was said quickly with a diminutive wave. "Eet ees ze future zat concerns us. Where ees Dumblydore? 'E ees to stand trial wizout delay."

"Oh, believe me Mister Dell...?"

"Delacour."

"–Mister Delacour," Cornelius repeated in what he hoped would pass for openness and honesty. "Nothing would please me more than to have this whole mess off my shoulders, but it seems as though we've found ourselves in a bit of a pickle."

"What do you mean?" the man asked. "'Ow could anyzing be more eemportant zan zis?"

"Tell me," the Minister said with a comforting smile, "Do you have children?"

The man's face became as unyielding as granite so quickly that Cornelius could've sworn that someone had transfigured it.

"What do you mean by zat?" the Frenchman asked in a much less friendly tone.

Quickly he scrambled to change what he was going to say. The last thing he wanted this man to think was that he was threatening to make his children orphans.

"I only mean that taking him now could have serious detrimental effects on a young boy that many regard as a beloved national hero of ours," Cornelius said smoothly, his voice full of false concern. Mr. Dela-Frenchman seemed to have trouble connecting the two things together though so he simply had to spell it out. "What do you know about Harry Potter?"

.o0O0o.

Hours had passed and things still weren't sitting right with her.

_'How had the day turned out like this?'_ she wondered.

It had started out like any other, with her restless and concerned about a child under her roof, only for things to go all widdershins when her eldest Confunded her with how little she knew about her own little girl. And if that wasn't enough, the financial fragility that the family managed to negotiate threatened to come crashing down while things with Harry had gone from bad to worse! Hermione and Luna – and even Ginny herself – had really saved the day in that regard.

That Hermione girl had sorted things out with Harry and the boys in no time at all, though if they had actually spent any time really doing their homework then Molly would take the place of the family ghoul. Bill might be right about Luna though; she may be just the spell she needed to turn her daughter around – not that Ginny looked like she needed any turning at the moment. Luna was the thing that was needed to keep her going straight. Was there a saying for that? The handle for Ginny's broom? That seemed to work.

No! She had one that was better. The life she had unknowingly made for Ginny was like the Burrow, only surrounded by high stone walls she couldn't climb and where Harry loomed larger than a giant. Luna, then, was like a small… hole that she could… crawl through? No, maybe she was more like a creeper she could climb. Oh! Luna was like the conductor of the great Hogwarts Express and would take her daughter off on a grand adventure in the land of WhereHarry'sNot.

_'I really need to get better at this,_' she decided. _'Maybe Luna's just a broom after all._'

Molly knew that she was dithering of course but dithering in private was always easier than facing the uncomfortable truth, and with Dobby around to take care of everything it wasn't like she had anything else to do anymore. The boys were fine, Harry was alright again, Ginny was on her way… somewhere, and Arthur had calmed her down about all that phony gold nonsense. But none of that seemed to make up for the fact that her beautiful baby boy was a criminal!

How could he help those goblins do whatever they wanted? His father worked for the Ministry! She knew she should have pushed him harder to go that way but working for the bank had seemed so respectable at the time. But even if what he was doing wasn't illegal it certainly wasn't right. Charlie would never help those goblins, that's for sure, and that's because he was a good boy who loved his mother. And even if he didn't seem to like her from time to time she had still raised him right.

What Bill needed was a good solid young woman to get his head out of the clouds, and nothing would right his thinking faster than a child of his own. As much as she wanted to take her children and shake some sense into them though she was not going to become her mother. She wasn't! The old shrew's tactics of isolation, and punishment, and threatening you with potions and contracts wasn't even on the table; they were completely unthinkable.

Besides, it hadn't worked on her brothers and it hadn't worked on her. If anything it had made them all more eager to get out from under her roof as soon as they could, and had made her brothers glad to help her skip off and elope with Arthur after their fifth year. How her brothers managed to get their father's signatures on the form allowing her to wed though she never knew, but she was eternally grateful for it.

She'd always thought that she'd drawn the appropriate line when it came to childcare though: a good talking-to and maybe some temporary grounding, but what she hadn't foreseen was how close even doing that sometimes got to what she'd gone through, especially when it was to a girl who had no friends of her own. So maybe she was still doing some things wrong but she only wanted more for her children than what she'd had, that's why she's fought so hard to keep them in school. Merlin knows that it's been dreadfully hard for Arthur to make enough to make ends meet with only his O.W.L.s but they were making do.

But they really weren't making do, not really. The fact that they'd been making do for so long was because of Harry and what Albus had done, but now that that's finished how were they to continue on at all? Percy's education was still paid for, thanks to the Hopefuls – unless they took that away from him that is – but assuming it was, that still left them with four tuitions to pay for next year when scrimping and saving every knut they could find had only ever been able to pay for three at a time.

Ginny deserved just as much of an education as any of her brothers but if they had to choose, how could you pick which to send and which to keep at home? Percy was a Prefect with a shot at being Head Boy, and next year would be his seventh year, so if they had to pay for his schooling as well as all the others it'd be an incredibly tough thing to do to deny him that opportunity. Likewise, it was going to be Fred and George's fifth year too, but while neither of them were Prefect material they had their O.W.L.s to think of and she and Arthur had been out of school for so long that she doubted their ability to teach them what they'd need to know.

On the face of it, those would be the most sensible ones to send if it came down to it, but if Percy still had his Hopefuls tuition then who would they send: Ron or Ginny? Ron would be in his third year then and picking up the extra classes, but even if they had the books he'd need he's never been one to read or study on his own; he might need the school environment to force him to learn it at all. Ginny would be the easiest one to teach at home since it'd only be her second year but it wasn't fair that the girl should miss out on what all of her brothers have had. And if she did want to make a go at Quidditch then how was she ever going to get on a team if she never got on a team?

_'Plus it'd mean taking her away from all the friends she'd make this year and we've already seen what that does to her,_' Molly reminded herself. _'We can't let that happen; there has to be some other way. Maybe Harry can just live here forever,_' she thought only to discard the idea. _'That would be using him just as much as Dumbledore did, and we're better people than that._'

But then she thought of something; maybe they could split it. Ron could go for half the year and Ginny could have the rest. Did Hogwarts do anything like that? She didn't think so, but it was just the type of idea that Dumbledore mi– Molly stopped herself and sighed. Any idea Dumbledore would like was sure to be avoided since the man himself was bound to be bundled off to prison soon. That meant that he wouldn't even be around next year to make this exception for them, even if he wanted to after she'd thrown him out of the house.

Things got even murkier after that. If they paid for Fred and George to go through O.W.L.s then how could they say that they couldn't go through N.E.W.T.s as well? It was only another two years of miserable hardship for Ron and Ginny, and one of those was Ron's O.W.L. year too. She really didn't want to think this but... after Percy... would it be O.W.L.s and done? Would her four youngest have to face the same hardships that she and Arthur had to when they were just starting out? She didn't want that for them.

Molly heard the house door open and hurried out of the area behind the kitchen where she did the laundry to try and make herself look busy with dinner. When she arrived though she found that there was not one, but two house-elves already there working. Had it really gotten so late and she hadn't noticed? And was Dobby breeding or something? How many of them would they have by the time the kids went back to school?

"But how does the shape keep the aeroplane up if the wings don't flap?" Arthur asked as he entered with Harry and Hermione.

"It's a force called Lift," the girl explained in mugglese. "The wing generates it by aeroplane propelling itself forward fast enough to move air over the curve of the wing so that it counteracts the pull of gravity."

"So if you were to make a spell that stopped this lift thing," he said while puzzling that line of muggleness a moment, "what would happen to the aeroplane then?"

"It'd fall and kill hundreds of people!" Hermione said aghast.

"Arthur, leave them alone and let them have some time to themselves," she chided him in the hopes of stopping the man from making sure the girl never wanted to come here again. "You've been hounding them all day about those muggle things; surely you're done by now."

"I had no idea there was so much to learn," her bewildered-eyed husband said.

"Yes, well, go on up and tell the boys to get ready for dinner," Molly told him with a look as she shooed him away from the pair. "Hermione, dear, will you be staying for dinner?" she asked in an attempt to smooth things over, though Merlin knew how many times Arthur would put his foot in his mouth if she stayed.

"Thank you, but no," the girl said as she regained her composure. "My dad wanted me home by then," she said as she checked one of those odd muggle watches they put on their wrists and an perturbed look crossed her face. "In fact, I should be going soon."

"That's too bad, dear," Molly said consolingly. "But don't be afraid to pop by anytime," she smiled.

"Thanks."

As the girl went to collect her things Molly tried to get Harry's attention and motioned for him to do what he should.

"Er – I'll – walk you out," he said eventually before going over to help her collect her things.

There was an awkward moment where he didn't know whether he should carry the book bag or simply hand it to her, but they quickly sorted it out. Molly had to run interference on with the dark-haired elf that had come with the girl though.

"Just wait a moment, dear," she told it quietly with a hand on its shoulder as it moved towards the girl.

She coaxed it back in time for them to turn away and look in a random cabinet in order to blend into the background while the couple walked back through the kitchen area to go outside. She patted it on the back for a job well done, though she doubted whether the confused elf even knew what was going on.

"I'll tell you when, dear, or Hermione will call," Molly told it as she covertly peeked through the window.

She couldn't tell what they were saying but their actions spoke louder than words to her. Harry was standing nervously with his arms bunched up against his sides and his hands in his pockets while she stood equally nervously, though rather close to him. And while his would occasionally dart up to flatten his hair after he said something, hers couldn't seem to stop fidgeting with that book bag or her hair.

Molly remembered that same nervousness from back when she and Arthur were first getting together. They'd known each other a bit before that, sure, but it was different when you were together; it was like having to learn to walk and talk all over again. It said plain as day that these two cared for each other but were far too frightened to really show it yet, which was precisely what it should be at their age.

Part of her wanted to show this to her daughter and say, _'This is what you should be looking for, not some sugary nonsense from a storybook written by a man who's never kissed a girl in his life. It's a genuine expression of two people who truly care for each other._' Ginny would never see it that way though; she would probably stomp and cry and shriek at the top of her lungs like one of those Quidditch girls she fancied herself being and end up ruining the whole thing for them only find some way to blame them for it.

Doing so would be much too harsh on Ginny too though and wouldn't really teach her anything if she wasn't willing to listen. It'd be just as wrong-headed as wanting to beat all those silly notions out of her head. The part of her that knew that thought about consoling her daughter over the fact that Harry was well and truly taken but who knows what that'd do, sink her down into despair just before she leaves home for Hogwarts? That wouldn't be doing her any favors either.

She had handled her daughter so poorly until now that all of those options were probably the wrong things to do entirely. It'd be hard to see the boy she's attached herself to go off to be with someone else, it always was, but if the last day had taught her anything it was that kids needed to find their own way after a certain point. Perhaps this was Ginny's time; she certainly couldn't do any worse for herself than she had.

_'Yes,_' Molly thought coming to a decision. _'Ginny was her own woman now, and she had Luna to talk to and was sure to find other friends besides. Perhaps getting through it on her own wouldn't be so bad after all; she might even be a stronger girl for it._' She certainly hoped so.

Movement brought her attention back to the young couple outside where they were sharing a nice intimate hug, though not so much so that she thought it best to interrupt them. She couldn't see it without a bit of regret though, maybe if she had reacted this way when Charlie had brought that Shawna girl home things would've gone better for him. It was difficult to see her in the Alley now with that man that was presumably her husband and that bulging belly that could've had a Weasley in it instead. She'd always thought that Charlie'd be the one who got married first but now she worried that he'd never marry at all.

The two kids in the garden pulled away from each other all smiles and Hermione looked down to her right and said something. Instantly there was a small _pop!_ in the kitchen as the little dark-haired elf appeared next to the girl outside and Molly could hear her herd starting to tromp make its way downstairs as the girl herself disappeared. Harry stood there for a moment before he came back inside as she busied herself by starting to move some of the dishes the elves had prepared over to the table.

Harry closed the door just as the boys hit the living room, though it was to her that he spoke.

"Thanks," he said with a little chagrined grin, his hand going up to flatten his hair again.

"You're welcome, dear," Molly smiled as she gave his shoulder a pat and let him get to his seat. He was a bright boy but if he knew even half the things she'd done for him today she'd eat that broom of his. Men never saw what was right in front of them.

.o0O0o.

The rest of the day was one big droopy mess, and that took a lot of work to do at the Lovegoods' place because it had always been somewhere that'd been happy. That was before though, before Luna's mum had died and before 'that girl' had took her Harry. Now everything was different.

One of the garden gnomes did follow them from the Burrow though and it had been fun to watch him run around and fight with the plimpies, but it would've been better if 'that girl' wasn't anywhere near the Burrow. Not anywhere near the country – not anywhere near the planet would've been better. She'd settle for the Burrow though. And Hogwarts; she shouldn't be at Hogwarts either.

That whole thing made playing in the stream and putting things in Luna's dad's press to watch them get smashed not as much fun as they should've been. It also made you notice that the chair that Luna's mum sat in at the table was empty, the dinner conversation seemed more strange than neat, the gurdyroot infusion didn't taste the same, and the soup was strangely sweet and had little legs in it that kept twitching when you ate it. It made for a very jumbly tummy.

Another thing she'd noticed as the day got darker and it got to be time for bed was that that girl had made her leave home in such a rush that she didn't have her pajamas, or a change of clothes for tomorrow, or even her toothbrush. Luna had given her an extra pair of pajamas to wear and had even said that she could use her toothbrush. That had seemed too weird though so she just used her finger to spread the toothpaste around; it didn't work too well, and seemed to make you taste it more, but it was better than nothing.

When she came out of the bathroom Luna was sitting curled up in the big comfy chair where her mother had used to read to them; she was reading to herself now though. Cleaned, washed, minty, and ready for bed, she still felt no better for all that since she just remembered another thing she'd left behind. She'd forgotten Tom at the Burrow too! Today just kept getting worse.

"Are you ready?" the other girl asked as she put her bookmark in place and Ginny just nodded.

Luna folded back the bed sheets and hopped up on the bed to spread the curtains to let in the night sky. She didn't know if it was just because of her name but Luna had always loved the sky, whether it was day or night she didn't care and sometimes she'd just stare off into the distance at it. She wasn't all that interested in flying though, which was strange since Ginny loved flying and didn't give two shakes about the sky itself.

Luna even had the daytime sky painted on her bedroom ceiling so that she could look at it whenever she wanted. She'd said she'd do something with that one day though, she just wasn't sure what. There was a full moon rising outside so it looked as though tonight was going to be special.

_'Maybe that girl would get bit by a werewolf,_' Ginny thought to herself as Luna turned out the lights and they got into bed. _'Harry wouldn't want her if she turned into a hairy, snarling beast every month. Or would he?'_ she wondered.

Ginny looked up at the darkened daytime sky on the ceiling and couldn't help but think. It would be like Harry to stick by that girl if something bad happened to her, even if it was being turned into a werewolf. Merlin, he'd probably run out and get bit himself just to be with her, or marry her as fast as he could just to show that it didn't matter to him. That's not what the future for the Boy Who Lived was supposed to be like; he wasn't supposed to have a pack of Potter puppies, he was supposed to be with her.

_'Stop thinking and go to sleep,_' she told herself. Closing her eyes and trying not to think didn't seem to help at all though so she went back to staring at the ceiling.

Ginny knew it was supposed to happen; she knew they were supposed to be together. She was special, everything said she was. She had red hair, she liked to fly, she was great at Quidditch, she was the seventh child, and the only one that was a girl. The number seven was magic, it was important, it was special, so her being the seventh had to mean something special too. She was important, she was special, she was magical in a way that that girl couldn't possibly be because she wasn't a seventh.

That didn't seem to matter to Harry though. Harry was stupid. And worse, he was nothing like the Boy Who Lived so why should she have to wait for him to change into it? What Harry knew of magic probably wouldn't fill up half a page, let alone a whole book. Tom filled a book. Tom filled a book so well he became a book. He filled a book so well that he became a book that then wrote itself, so take that, Harry!

_'Tonight's going to be a long night,_' she thought grumpily as she turned on her side.

When she opened her eyes again Luna was staring back at her with a thoughtful look on her face. The moonlight seemed to reflect off her silvery blue-grey eyes so they seemed to shine, just like her hair. She was about to ask what was going on but the other girl suddenly leaned in and kissed her on the lips! Luna was... What? It was over as fast as it had happened but still she couldn't think. Why had she done that? The two of them hadn't practiced kissing in ages, and certainly never in a bed! Why would Luna kiss her now?

"What was that for?" she whispered wide-eyed.

"You seemed down," Luna said dreamily, "and I didn't want you to become infested by wrackspurts. Since you've been around Harry a lot lately they could be a problem. Kissing's always helped before."

"Oh," Ginny said swallowing the apple that seemed to have gotten lodged in her throat as her heart started pounding a little less loudly with each passing second. "Right. Thanks," she said realizing just how unused to Luna she'd gotten since her mum had stopped them being friends.

"You're welcome," the other girl smiled before lying on her back to go to sleep.

Ginny wondered how anyone could sleep that way as she curled up a bit and put an arm under the pillow to support her head.

"You shouldn't dwell on enemies, you know," Luna said with her eyes closed. "You should think about friends."

Now that the shock was over, she actually did feel a bit better. The day hadn't been that bad really, not when she really thought about it; which is what Luna probably meant in the first place. She'd just been surprised, that's all. That girl wasn't supposed to show up today so when she did everything she'd wanted to do just got tossed out the window in a hissy fit and she'd gone storming off.

_'Little girl Ginny strikes again,_' she thought. _'She had to ruin everything for Ginevra._'

Luna was right though, she decided a little bit later as she raised the covers over her shoulder and settled down to sleep; it was good to have friends again. The days of little girl Ginny was done. She was sporty-girl Ginevra now and she wasn't going back.

.o0O0o.

With eyelids like lead weights Auror Trainee 'I-Have-No-First-Name' Tonks stood her post and tried to stop herself from nodding off. Since they were on 'a heightened state of alert,' and would be for the foreseeable future, the high muckety-mucks had started to rotate people out so they could get some sleep and set up regular guard shifts both here and elsewhere. That had been around noon and since fully trained aurors were needed around the clock they were the first to be pulled and the first to be replaced; it was now after dark and it looked to be threatening rain.

They changed positions every hour or so to keep alert but that hadn't helped much with her. She'd been standing around all day and so far has been stationed almost everywhere around the perimeter of the school grounds but a fat lot of good she'd be against it if a bloody dragon showed up, if the wilder rumors from elsewhere were true. She'd already forgotten how many hours it's been since anything even remotely interesting's happened though. Luckily, or perhaps not so luckily as far as falling asleep was concerned, she at least had the flying pig-topped pillars of the Hogwart's gates to lean back on while she waited for her relief.

The full moon, when it bothered to peek out from behind the clouds, bathed everything in its muted light. She'd never been one to believe the rumors of packs of werewolves roaming around the forest back when she'd been a student but on nights like these it was hard to put those thoughts out of your mind completely. It wasn't the light of the moon that concerned her though, it was the brief swirl of blue light about ten yards away that had her drawing her wand as she fought another yawn.

_'Merlin, I need to be in bed. I'm dead on my feet,_' she thought as the figures that'd appeared were exposed to be none other than Professor Dumbledore and a replacement squad headed by Kingsley Shacklebolt. _'I should tell him to either send me home or transfigure me a bed to sleep in._'

Once they got closer though Tonks was jolted awake by what she saw. The fact that the older man was there wasn't really strange, given where they were; what was strange though was that his hands were bound in front of him like some common criminal. It was like some kind of elaborate prank. Had the entire world taken leave of their senses? The men themselves seemed to be of two minds about it though.

"Again, I'm sorry about this, professor, but what they're saying–," the deep-voiced auror tried to explain in a tone midway between his calmly commanding baritone and a kind of abashed humility.

"I'm sure that whatever the reason is that's cause of all this, that everyone involved is only acting for the greater good," the headmaster told the man consolingly as Tonks tried to puzzle out what she's missing. "The truth of things is sure to come out in time."

Shacklebolt smiled at the man as they reached the gates and she had to go back to scanning the area and pretending she wasn't listening.

"I'm sure that all this has been a big misunderstanding," he said as produced his wand and tapped it to release the headmaster from his restraints. "I'm glad that you're taking this in stride."

"Misunderstandings happen," the kindly old grandfather of a man said as he rubbed his newly freed wrists. "I presume that the detailed list of charges shall be made available to me soon?"

That question made Tonks glance back at the man. Restraints or no, what kind of charges could Dumbledore have out against him?

"Once we get it we can send someone by with it," Kingsley replied. "Until everything has been settled though we're going to have to ask you to remain here."

"That's to be expected," Dumbledore said jovially with a glance over his half-moon spectacles as Kingsley motioned to the other guard across from her to open the gates. "Amelia made me sign a binding agreement that amounted to a kind of house arrest, and the Ministry had it activated immediately, so I'm quite content not to flee the country. There was talk though that the Minister had wanted an Unbreakable Vow, if you can believe it."

"Even that man wouldn't be so foolish," her superior said with a look that implied that in fact the man might've been but someone had undoubtedly talked him around into seeing sense.

"My wand?" the headmaster asked curiously.

"Ah," the other man said uncomfortably. "Unfortunately I wouldn't be able to give you that even if I had it. It's been decided that having one isn't necessary for you to oversee Hogwarts or prepare your defense," Kingsley informed him. "Rest assured that it's in good hands and will be returned to you at the proper time."

Dumbledore seemed to contemplate that for a moment before he spoke.

"I suppose I can see their point," he said finally. "It is yet another burden I must bear to clear my name. I thank you and all your officers for their service, and apologize that I must inconvenience them in this way," the old headmaster smiled. "Would anyone care for a cup of hot cocoa?"

Tonks definitely could've used one but Kingsley declined for them all saying that it wouldn't be appropriate.

"Should you change your mind, you know where I'll be," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye before closing the gate and starting towards the castle.

Before the man had gone far a red and gold bird came swooping down towards him so fast that it seemed to leave streaks of color behind it. It pulled up and fluttered around him before settling on his shoulder. With the other replacements getting instructions on who to relieve, herself amongst them, Tonks abandoned her duties to stare at the strange but beautiful creature.

"Ah, Fawkes," Dumbledore said, looking up to greet the bird. "Back from your trip I see."

The bird briefly sang a mournful song for a moment.

"Ah, yes, I see," the headmaster nodded as if the bird had actually spoken. "Of course it's one thing to know that it would happen, and quite another to know that it has. I'm sure they would have been happy to see you again though," Dumbledore said consolingly before the bird sang again, differently this time.

"Really?" he asked sounding somewhat surprised. "So that is what all this is about? Curious that no one saw fit to tell me. Still," the man said with a tone that housed an obvious grin, "Won't they feel the fool once all's said and done?"

The bird he called Fawkes sang out a trill as he started to walk again.

"No, but thank you," Dumbledore told the bird as they receded. "A few stairs don't concern me, and we must consider what everyone else might think. It wouldn't do to excite them."

As the man's flowing purple robe faded into the night Tonks glanced over to Kingsley to see the same peculiar look on his face that she knew she had to have on hers.

"Is he... alright?" she asked her superior, though asking if he was 'all there' was what she really wanted to know. She'd always thought the headmaster was kinda quirky, but talking to a bird?

"The greatest wizards have always been a little eccentric," Shacklebolt said dubiously. "What concerns me more is the phoenix. I've heard of it but is the first time I've seen it. They are supposed to have rather unique traveling abilities though."

"So if he does try to run, he'd have a getaway option easily at hand," Tonks said, her tired brain finally good for something. "If he's already agreed not to leave though," she said thinking it through, "does that even matter or should we try to take it from him just to be safe? And if it's that unique, would a normal anti-disapparition jinx even hold it?"

"Good questions," Kingsley replied, pulling out the small pad he used to make notes with. "Either way your concerns will be noted. Good work."

"Er – Thanks," she said not really knowing how to take the complement since Moody never gave them and her dealings with Kingsley had always been in the combat area of things. "I don't really want to ask this," Tonks said with a little bit of a sigh as she felt her weariness return. "But how long do I have before I'm back on guard duty again?"

"You're not going to be," he replied, brushing away that tiredness again temporarily. "After what happened in Diagon Alley, Scrimgeour's pulled all trainees out of the field."

"What really happened in–?"

"Do really want to wait around here and find that out now or get some sleep and find out later?" Kingsley asked with a cocked eyebrow, though his face looked like he could use the sleep too.

"Sleep," she replied as she turned to walk away. "Definitely sleep."

"Then sleep well... Pinky."

Tonks paused a moment as her shoulders hunched, her fingers twitched, and her lips writhed in frustration. Briefly she thought of hexing the man but surprise attacks had never ended well for her in training and the ground here was harder.

"Gah!" she cried, throwing up her hands and storming off; she was still unable to outpace the gaggle of giggles that followed her down the road from Hogwarts though.

If she ever saw that old friend of Moody's again she may just have to kill him.

.o0O0o.

The journey up to his office always seemed a longer one than the trip down, even with Fawkes there as company, but such was the way of things. Everything you learned, everything you did, or said, or even left unsaid was but one small step in the laborious journey of your life that took you from the most humble of beginnings to the loftiest heights. Coming down from those heights though was quick in comparison.

He had been hoping to serve out the remainder of his days softly influencing the Wizengamot and the international community in ways that best accord to those of the Greater Good and therefore hadn't seen his own quick descent coming at all. In hindsight though it should have been obvious. All of the signs had been there, Albus had simply not wanted to see them.

Try as he might, his ways were not the ways of the Greater Good; there was still too much pride and vanity in him, he saw that now. What did the Greater Good care of appearances, of the image that was presented to others? It cared nothing for that. It was humble and chose to act in ways so circuitous and indistinct that it masked the fact that it did anything at all; that's how he should be, not flouncing about in glamorous gowns and bedazzling boots. He felt like such an old fool.

If the Greater Good was testing his mettle for the trials and tribulations ahead then of course everything that made him who he was was going to be subject to its scrutiny as well. One by one things may be taken away from him so that he might be cleansed; his positions, his fame, his accomplishments, his good name, even his health. If such was the price to be a better servant then it was one he was willing to pay.

Albus wanted to be optimistic for what this would mean for the future but knew that that too had to be constrained and removed. The Greater Good did not live that way, it lived every moment in an ever-flowing present, briefly mindful of where things have been and curious as to where it's going, but never so presumptuous as to decree what should and should not be before it gets there. Before, he'd been left to his own devices and the imperfections within him allowed to grow; now he was being scoured clean; in the future the trial would well and truly begin and what would happen then only the Greater Good would decide.

With a ride up the spiraling staircase to the Griffin Door, Albus arrived at last at the place he called his home, at least for now. Transferring Fawkes to his hand he extended his arm so that she might go to her perch, instead she trilled out a song that made him think of height, and comfort, and snuggling up by himself. He nodded and redirected his steps towards the large Gothic style cabinet so that the phoenix might make itself at home.

As curious as phoenixes were there were fewer still who were curious about them. Soon after he had gained a rapport with the bird Fawkes had done two things: it became somewhat intelligible to him through those vague impressions it gave and began constructing a shallow nest interwoven with strands of his own hair. Sadly, though, the person in charge of looking after Sparky, the mascot of the Moutohora Macaws of New Zealand, had always been very tight-lipped about the habits of their phoenix so he's never been able to verify whether either were normal behaviors.

As he walked to his desk he saw that one of the elves had prepared a small snack for him and appeared to have found a _Daily Prophet_ for him. Albus had the warm sticky bun halfway to his mouth when he turned over the paper to get a look at the headline. Dropping the nutty snack, it fell into his beard and landed in his lap, but it was his own image gazing back at him that held him ensnared.

_'So this was what those comments were about,_' he thought as he looked through the article.

The Greater Good had truly wanted him blind to what had happened today and so delayed the paper's arrival and never once had anyone mention it directly. Looking back though the security guard's "Ida beee seeing you" comment and Rita's interest in him did make a great deal of sense. Misses Woodbead and Nithercott fawning all over him then became equally embarrassing; Merlin knew what they would make of what he said.

Albus tried to shake himself from such thoughts for they were exactly the kind he should be ridding himself of. If he was embarrassed and made fun of then it was all for the best; the Greater Good had arranged it after all and it was his place to accept what it gave, and what it took away.

Perhaps he should write to Bathilda though and advise her against revealing who had truly written those books. They had spoken often during the war about Heroes and the Burden they bear, of the Trials they face, the Virtues they instill in them, and how such tales can be instructive, not only to individuals, but to entire societies. So, when she admitted the secret desire she had to try her hand at an original composition, who was he to say no?

But if someone was to take on the shame and public derision for making them then who better than him, the person who'd already been marked out for it? It would help to reduce his pride and serve a little bit of heartbreak for having it in the first place. Albus dug the sticky bun out of his sticky beard as Fawkes sang again, giving him the impression of warmth and another location.

"Thank you, Fawkes, but no," he smiled. "You go ahead and rest there; one of the school owls will do when I'm ready."

Out of habit his hand went to his pocket to draw his wand in order to clean the nuts from his beard when he suddenly remembered that he didn't have it anymore. Albus felt naked without it and thought of searching for his old one or stopping by the Room of Requirement to see if anyone had lost any that would do before he shunned that idea. If the Greater Good had wanted him to have a wand then he'd have a wand, instead he was to be humble, weak, and powerless and so 'having one isn't necessary.'

His new circumstances would take some getting used to.

.o0O0o.

If Molly thought that she had nothing left to lose confidence in, the days since that stone goblin head crashed into the house had proven her wrong again. Though it called itself_ 'The Daily Prophet,_' in truth it wasn't printed everyday. Occasionally there was an _Evening Prophet_, though those were rather rare, but rarer still were the weekend editions.

The last time it'd happened was the day after You-Know-Who had paid a call on the Potters and had been resoundingly defeated by a baby. That news had sparked celebrations for days afterwards, though now Molly felt a deepening sense of shame at feeling so happy when the child who'd grow up to do so much for her family had just lost his parents. She had always kept that _Prophet_ as a keepsake but now she didn't know whether it'd be best to get rid of it; it was such a positive piece that it really wouldn't do if Harry or the boys started poking around and found it.

This Saturday's _Weekend Prophet_ gave her no such thrills at all. Goblins, dragons, and a large tower dominated the page though ruins and bodies were still strewn about everywhere; thankfully though they were all goblins. They didn't mention any human participation at all outside of the I.C.W. leader, Delta Coors, but she thought she'd die if they'd named Bill as someone who was helping them. That was before she'd gotten to the part with the Ministry though.

Molly didn't know who this Dolores Umbridge was but everyone with any sense knew not to provoke the goblins, much less try to steal from them. What had she been thinking trying to take the Isle of Gringotts from them just because old saint Nicholas Flamel was there? It had Gringotts in the name, of course it belonged to them!

Dumbledore hadn't been spared either. Rita had taken great pains in explaining the man's ties to Flamel, why the Sorcerer's Stone was dangerous, and outlining some of what they knew about how the headmaster had stolen it in the first place. None of this made her feel any better about him or Hogwarts but with all the kids' tuitions paid for this year they really had nothing they could do but let them go and hope that Albus wouldn't be there long.

The third strike against the Ministry came with the dragon being loosed on Diagon Alley. She didn't know who's bright idea it'd been to attack the bank but whoever'd done it deserved to be thrown to those very same dragons for putting people in so much danger. As much as it shocked her, Molly was finding herself actually understanding why the goblins had done what they had. How could the Ministry be so stupid?

Neither she nor Arthur knew if what Bill was doing in helping the goblins was the right thing to do but in the end he was right. They just had to have faith that they had raised the boy to know right from wrong and hope he knew what he was doing. It'd be so much easier to do that though if they knew who to root for.

Things got murkier in Monday's _Prophet_ where – looking at things the Ministry explained them – the goblins had illegally seized land that didn't belong to them, threatened Ms. Umbridge, and kidnapped a handful of Ministry hit wizards. At least the I.C.W. had expelled Dumbledore though why the Ministry insisted on protecting the man was lost on her. Give Harry the chance to move on with his life and let the foreigners have Albus.

And thinking about Harry, it was certainly a good thing that his girl was visiting. It wasn't an everyday thing, more like every other day, but it kept him in good spirits and gave him something to focus on. Merlin knew he needed a distraction from his own problems towards the middle of the week when the _Prophet_ got wind of the boy's case against Dumbledore and followed it up with a very derogatory critique of those trashy Boy Who Lived books that Ginny'd liked.

It seemed that Ginny was doing better too in some ways. She spent so much time outside now that she'd been able to poke around her room to make sure that all those books were gone. Molly managed to find several hidden spots that were just the right size for hiding things but besides her school books and a diary she'd gotten from somewhere there was not a book to be seen except for _"A Fan's Guide to the Holyhead Harpies._" She left the diary untouched though. Every girl needed some girlish outlet, even the ones that ran around with the boys.

Besides Harry though things weren't going so well on the Hermione front. She was very polite but all the girl had to do really was show up and Molly could see the little rain cloud form over Ginny, who always seemed to make some excuse before dragging Luna off with her. Fred and George had always been more inclined to pal around with themselves but what she hadn't expected was Ron had begun slipping away from them too soon after she arrived.

In the fear that Ron might be experiencing the same thing as Ginny she'd pulled him aside that Thursday thinking that if the Ministry couldn't find a way to ease the tension and fear hanging over Diagon Alley that at least she could in her own home. Thankfully the boy wasn't being that way at all; his problem was that it 'felt weird' being around them now that they were – as he put it – 'you know.' She was so relieved that she started giving him advice without ever realizing that she was doing it.

"You normally wouldn't have had to deal with this for a few years," she'd told her son kindly as they stood in the kitchen, "but it was bound to happen eventually. The same thing happened to me once my girl friends started finding boys they liked. What you have to remember though is just because they've become a little more than friends with each other doesn't mean that they're not still friends with you," Molly explained.

"I've seen them invite you to talk and read and do whatever with them when they go off to talk muggle with your father," she went on to say, "So they're making an effort, but you always slink away. Your friendship's changing a bit so, sure, they'll probably want to spend some time just with each other, but they'll find ways of letting you know when that is. You're not doing yourself any favors though by pulling away completely; all you'll do is end up without either of them as friends and they certainly don't want that."

She had dipped into her past and managed to come up with something not only that related to him and his situation but also provided some pearls of wisdom he could use in the future that she'd found useful herself. Molly didn't know if Ron took it all to heart but it certainly made her feel better. The next time the two settled down in the living room to study he did join them though but she'd had to stop herself from laughing at the girl's exasperated "What have you been doing all this time?" when she found out that Ron hadn't started on his homework after all. She peeked around the corner and gave him a serious look instead that sent him scurrying for a quill.

All that aside she still felt rather hopeless when it came to what they'd do for the future and talking to Arthur just had things going around in circles. Either Hogwarts would revoke Percy's Hopeful tuition or they wouldn't so they could only plan for the worst and hope for the best. How they'd plan for the worst though depended on their income and Arthur said that the chances of him betting a pay raise was slim to none.

He hadn't said anything else about it since that first time but she couldn't deny that part of her liked the idea of being a Glenda Goodwitch. It was a quiet position of trust within the community; you couldn't go to just anyone with your homemaking woes, you needed someone who understood. And really, when you thought about it, it wasn't like there was a lot of work involved; she might even be able to work from home and wait to start actually doing it until the school term started. With all the cooking and cleaning she needed to do being taken care of by Dobby it wasn't like she couldn't do it now though if they'd said she couldn't wait.

There was also something that she hadn't considered before – and she had to remember to thank Bill for bringing this to mind later. What kind of message would it be sending to Ginny – to all her children really but to Ginny in particular? Would she be telling them that things were so bad off that they had to do everything they could to get more money or would she be seen as a confident and outgoing woman going forth to make her mark on the world?

The first was certainly true, though she wouldn't want them to know that. The second part was a lie though because she was petrified, though what of she wasn't quite sure. What if they said no? What if no one wrote to her? What if she tried and wasn't any good? What if nobody liked her? She might not be the best in the world but she certainly didn't want to become known as the world's worst homemaker. And worse, what if after putting herself through all that they let her go and they still didn't get the money they'd need? Who'd give her a job after that if she failed that badly?

"Arthur?" she said quietly from where she was curled up on her side of the bed.

"Hm?" he replied as he shifted.

Molly didn't know how to ask any of those things, let alone what was at the root of all those anxieties, so instead she asked him something else.

"Do you really think that I'd make a good Glenda Goodwitch?" she asked, casting her fears into the dark wee hours between Thursday and Friday.

Arthur turned on his side and snuggled up behind her so that she was his little spoon and kissed her on the shoulder before saying the thing he'd said to her all those years ago when she was doubting her plan to escape.

"My Mollywobbles can do anything," he said as he put his arm around her.

Quiet tears of silent relief sprang from her eyes and she hugged the arm that hugged her. He always knew exactly what he needed to say.

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** Now I know what you're thinking, Prince didn't change his name to a symbol and become 'The Artist Formerly Known As Prince' until 1993. And you're right; that's a bit of an anachronism on my part. Let's face it though, no one but me went back to look it up so if you all promise to keep it quiet I think Jean-Claude Van Damme's 'Timecop' won't show up from two years in this story's future to arrest Harry for making an inappropriate reference. ;)

As always, thanks for reading.


	30. In Gotts We Trust

.o0O0o.

Albus had known that the assault on his vanity would be swift and severe but had thought himself up to it nonetheless. In truth, nothing could have prepared him for having an entire edition of the _Weekend Prophet_ exposing his worst failings for the entire world to see. For someone as caring and compassionate as he it was well and truly torturous. It saddened him to no end to see that battle had been brought to these shores on his account.

And even if it was only between differing goblin factions, loss of life was still loss of life and therefore always lamentable. Had he known he would have stood between them and urged them to make peace and continue on in fellowship instead. But that was not to be for at that moment hundreds of miles away the Greater Good had declared that he was unworthy to hold such a post but was to watch as all his pretensions were stripped away.

And though it disquieted him to know that the two groups who had so despised his good friend Nicholas for centuries were now walking through his tomb of a tower, perhaps now they could learn to see the marvelous man behind their ancient animus. As he continued reading though it seemed as though the maggoty worms of their darker natures were winning the day instead and all involved seemed to insist on squabbling like loathsome vultures picking at the corpses of those blessed souls who'd gone before.

Death and ruination on l'île de Flamel, dragons in Diagon Alley, Gringotts at odds with the Ministry, the Ministry at odds with the I.C.W., and he was blamed for it all rather than permitted to make peace. It seemed that it was not only his pride that was to be scoured away by the ministrations of the Greater Good, but his presumption for independent action too. How else could he truly be called its servant if there was a chance that he might do anything other than what it wanted?

All that aside though, Albus couldn't deny that the next charge was the one that hurt him most. _'Why Does Dumbledore Hate Us?'_ a banner headline incredulously inquired above an ever-cycling depiction of that terrible moment in the Wizengamot when the charms on his robes had been removed and the tiredness of his wardrobe had been left for all to see before the article then turned his own words against him.

_'"The truth often proves disastrous to those who strive to hide their hate in glamorous garb and rosy tones," the duplicitous Dumbledore prophetically said before the world-shaking Wizengamot not one day gone. And as the dust settles and his crimes are laid bare we're left to ask: Why does he hate us? What has this country, which has given him so much, ever done to him?'_

For someone as just, honest, good, and true as him it felt like an impossible betrayal. How could they not know that all he did he did to act on their behalf, for the good of everyone? Anyone less kind, less compassionate, less thoughtful, and less sincere than he surely would have dismissed the charge as a willful distortion of a deranged and unhinged mind, but no, not Albus. He knew what he had to do. He had to take in this pain and make it a part of himself; to let it transform him into something more than what he was.

Over the next several hours Albus packed up the books from his bedchamber and office – those that weren't too Dark or wouldn't be needed to work out Harry's future – and carried them down to the Library for Madam Pince to find and do with what she will. She had long asked him for more resources that she could use to pry into the more secretive parts of their history and he had always come up with something to dissuade her. But that was not his place anymore and surely she would find something of use there.

Disturbing the common myths that'd been constructed during the last thousand years could be a troubling, and possibly even destructive, thing for it would call into doubt so many of the truths people clung to and held most dear. He saw now though was that it was his arrogance, ambition, and pride disguising itself as a mockery of the Greater Good's kindness that had led him to try and preserve them, not any concern he might have for cultural unity. After all, if that legendarium was disturbed and seen as less than perfect figures to emulate then how could Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter hope to one day join the likes of Godric Gryffindor or the mighty Merlin in the annals of magical history?

The lack of a wand and the stabbing pain in his knee made for slow going, but using the old wand he'd kept would've violated the spirit of his confinement and foregoing Nicholas's treatment seemed a small but fitting penance. Besides, haltingly hobbling along the halls of Hogwarts was an honest and humbling act, and pain was the price to pay for providence. Perhaps he'd give the recipe to Severus so that he might donate it to St. Mungo's and others might benefit without suffering the stigma of associating with him at this time.

He also moved his clothes to the bed and had some of the house-elves take the wardrobe and dressing table to one of the unused classrooms so that the other professors could make use of them if they had need, though he did linger a moment before having them take the mirror too. The bookshelves that weren't built into the walls he had them take as well now that he no longer needed them. Their place on his bedchamber's walls was taken up by the clippings he'd made from the latest _Daily Prophets_, and he made sure to leave plenty of room for what's to come.

_'If the Light of the Greater Good is to hollow me out and scour me clean then let its judgement wash over me like a righteous fire and devour all but that last bit it might see fit to hallow; I shall not look away,_' Albus thought as he smoothed the newsprint of his blushing face from yesterday. _'I deserve this; for what I've done, for what I haven't done, and for what there's left to do._'

The bedchamber seemed strangely larger when he looked at it again and his office was still full of vanity. He had the house-elves fetch him a simple wooden chest and spent the next several hours reviewing the memories he'd collected one last time before carefully packing them and his pensieve away. The chest proved just the right height to function as a bedside table and thus he was able to free himself of the one he had as well.

When he'd returned to his office Albus was surprised to see that the day's light was already coming to an end. He returned to his bedchamber just long enough to change into his dressing gown and pick up his clothes from the bed.

"Bobopsy?" he called to the diligent little elf that'd served the headmaster for the last several years and with a quick _pop!_ it was there.

"Yes, Mister Professor-Head?" it eagerly asked.

"Could you please have this cleaned for tomorrow?" he asked as he passed over the robes he'd worn that day.

"Certainly, sirs," the elf said bowing.

"And if you have something remaining from what you prepared for one of the other professors' dinner, that'll do for me tonight," Albus told the elf before he made his way down the steps to his desk.

A small tray with a bowl of soup and two crusty loaves of bread were there to greet him. Setting down what remained of his colorful collection of buckled boots on one side of the desk he folded the clean robes over and set them on top so that he wouldn't forget them tomorrow. But then, of course, he remembered that tomorrow was Sunday and one of the many things that've come from the muggle world over the last hundred years was a day on which virtually no one worked. Still, perhaps Kingsley or someone else on duty would be able to find someone to take them.

It turned out that the soup, while still warm, was quickly forming a greasy film on top and tasted almost entirely of tomato. The crusty loaves were exceedingly dry and hard enough to break up for croutons. They did taste strongly of garlic though so dipping them into the soup for a while served to make both more palatable.

The next day began relatively early with another simple meal before he sent Fawkes off with a note in a flash of fire. Albus paused a moment to wonder how she did that without consuming the parchment itself but in the end simply had to lament how little they knew about how magic interacted with the natural world. What they did know was passed down from generation to generation and was kept because it always seemed to work and finding out the why of things or creating truly new innovations were an uncommon event for great minds like his were exceedingly rare.

Chiding himself for starting the day on the wrong foot he made his way around to the spindly-legged tables and moved his shining silver instruments to the desk. When he finished he saw that Fawkes had returned to her perch in the corner and was already preoccupied by looking at him oddly. Albus was unsure though whether it was the act itself or the fact that he was still in his dressing gown that made his long-time companion curious.

Either way he didn't want to bother the house-elves for something as trivial as laundering another robe today if Kingsley couldn't stop by or with removing the small tables from the office when he could manage by himself. When he'd returned from the ever increasingly long trips, eager for a moment to rest his knee, he had a surprise waiting for him. It was Fawkes, who'd moved her perch into the center of the room and spared him a look before taking flight for the top of the gothic cabinet again.

Curious as to why, it suddenly struck him: the perch was gold. It had been gifted to him decades before but Fawkes was right, there really couldn't be much more of an ostentatious display of vanity than that, especially considering what the wider world considered him guilty of. Albus glanced up to his faithful friend and nodded in understanding. It proved to be far heavier than he remembered, though he supposed he could've been considerably stronger thirty-five years ago when he'd assumed the office.

It was only when he took a moment to rest in the nearest unused classroom and rubbed the pain from his knee that he realized where he was. Dusty from years of disuse and cluttered with bits of unneeded furniture, this was where he used to teach. It was the third of the three such classrooms he'd used during his time teaching actually, though this was the one he'd been most fond of and the one he'd taken after the fall of poor Gellert.

With a growing sense of sadness though Albus knew that it had not been to get away from the bustle of the castle or a desire for contemplation that'd caused him to move to the seventh floor, it was a sense of pride that'd been worming its way into his heart. This room, at the time, had seemed perfect. It was close to the bathrooms, had a fairly quick route to the hospital wing, there was an entry to the astronomy tower on that level so he could enjoy the view on lovely nights, and the Room of Requirement was not too far away. Looking back though he had to admit that being pressed up almost directly under the Headmaster's Office had been attractive too.

_'After having to face Gellert and bring him to justice, I thought I was safe here at Hogwarts… but in truth I wasn't safe anywhere,_' Albus realized.

Facing him had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, and though every day he delayed had shamed him; he had feared the man more. Things could have gone very differently had Gellert mentioned Ariana, if he had said that Albus had been the one who'd been responsible for her death, for learning that was true had been the thought that terrified him into inaction. Ninety-three years after her death and he still didn't know the truth of it; his scar gave him hope that it was untrue just as his brother, Alberforth, tried to take that hope away whenever he saw him.

Their brethren on the Continent had insisted on wining and dining him after Grindelwald was taken and it seemed that everyone had wanted to shake his hand and tell him how he'd changed everything for them. It'd seemed a balm for the sorrow of his soul, seeing those happy smiles while his heart was breaking. When he'd finally returned to Britain the congratulations had continued; the fawning treatment and protestations that his was a duel that would live in history as the cornerstone of modern Europe came from those who'd never seen it.

_'You're wasted at Hogwarts,_' they had said. _'Now is your time to really shape the world in your image. We need you._'

If they'd only known just how much of what happened on the Continent had had their source in a Dark and twisted form of his image they would not have been so quick to offer him the chance to put his ideas into practice once again. Turning down the post of Minister of Magic had been a simple thing after that, but it had gotten him thinking nonetheless.

Unlike what the zeal for change and the impetuousness of youth had led him and Gellert to believe when they were young, age had brought the wisdom to know that it was always best to work differences out without resorting to violence. Indeed, never becoming violent at all if possible, but should your opposition be so and deadly, you should never become such yourself else you prove to be just as wrong as they are. Albus had proven the rightness of that when the conflict with Grindelwald had finally come; he had only sought to capture, never to kill or maim, though many had urged him to do so.

The truth of that notwithstanding, how could garnering strength in order to push forward with bold change be wrong? Yes, even bold political change the likes Britain had always needed would necessitate some small but acute harm for the few that held power, that much was a given. But when it was done to bring about the greatest good for the greatest number – in essence, working for the greater good of man – wasn't that what was best for everyone?

It was only when he'd returned to Hogwarts that he'd truly started to see glimmers of what the greater good really was at work. He'd been blinded to it for so long but there in front of him, in the lofty cycles and simple acts of day-to-day life, he saw how the simple connections between people in an environment of peace, comfort, security, and love could change the world and its people in miraculous ways that those tiny acts could barely hint at.

When life placed hardships on one of them, it fostered friendship and community by encouraging others to share in that burden and lighten the load. When disagreements happened, tempers flared, and harsh words were exchanged – yes, friendships could be strained for a time, perhaps even dissolved and fights ensue – but an opportunity for reconciliation was formed where new perspectives could be gained. And perhaps the strangest and most powerful source for good he found was in the precursors of Love itself.

It never failed to bring a smile to his face to see a pair of young people squabble over the most inconsequential things. _'Professor, he dipped my hair in ink!' 'She set my robes on fire!' 'He stole my notes!' 'She shot bats at me!' 'You tried to kill my toad!'_ Looking back, it was so often those same youths who ended up squabbling again years later, only this time in kindness and jest while on their way to Hogsmeade to enjoy a lovely day in each other's company – as something more than friends.

That was when the truly bold change had come, not within the Wizengamot, but within himself! Like a blind man who'd been made to see, it was like Albus had been healed and made whole. There had to be something, some subtle hand, guiding these events, shaping the people and circumstances as the acts played themselves out and existence wended its way towards some ultimate end.

And at last he knew that the story of life had some great storyteller! And what a grand one it was for everything that happened was a part of it. It left nothing to waste, nothing to chance; it was all designed for some sublime purpose. And if only someone could bring this realization into the halls of power then surely the Greater Good would guide them into the brightest of futures imaginable and make them all a truly virtuous people.

This was what had led him into this room, his arrogance, his vanity, his surety that he was the one best suited to be the vessel, this instrument of the Greater Good, for where better to start than at Hogwarts itself?

_'Armando is too old,_' he'd thought, _'too out of touch with the world to see the Truth of things. Otherwise he would have known that Tom had been lying about Hagrid's spider being the cause of poor Myrtle Warren's death, just as he'd been lying about not knowing about the Heir of Slytherin's attacks._'

And in a seeming final straw against him, Albus had thought that his failure to see Hagrid's right to a Second Chance – that he had had to be talked into granting a limited one – had been a grievous offense worthy of disqualifying the man from leadership. And thus it fell to him to move into this room, for it was his duty to push Headmaster Dippet out by making it too uncomfortable for him to stay when someone so much better suited for the job was at hand. And when that time had come his shining example of love and friendship seemed to fill the Great Hall with the Light of the Greater Good.

How his vanity had blinded him; rather than pushing Armando out he should have been recruiting him to the cause of the Greater Good! Who knows what would have happened then? Though there would have been no way to know whether he would have been successful, Albus knew now that he should have tried. After all, two working together for the Greater Good was better than one standing alone.

Though the presence of the Greater Good had changed the school for the better in many ways and gave them all years of kind and loving fellowship together, there seemed to be something hampering its progress. Still, each new school year brought with it a new Second Chance, even if many in Slytherin House refused to see the Truth to this day. Try as he might, for all his pondering Albus had never been able to see the Truth of that.

It was even more unfortunate for things were even worse in the Wizengamot, where this unknown Darker power seemed to hold almost everyone in its grip to one degree or another. What could stand up with such a stubborn resolve, even in such a tiny fashion, against that which ruled everything? What could stymie such a force for Good when those swayed by it gathered together in such numbers?

Voldemort he had observed, watched, and researched for more than forty years and though final and unequivocal confirmation of some small-but-crucial details still eluded him, Albus thought in his most humble opinion that he would be able to predict with reasonable accuracy what the man was most likely to do, if given the chance. How much more would he be able to decipher, not only of the workings of that warlock's hairy heart, but of the inner workings of mankind if that Darker Truth were revealed?

_'Perhaps it is not for me to know,_' he reminded himself as he stood and put weight on his knee once again and his sigh turned into a groan. _'I should content myself with being rid of impure thoughts so that I might better serve the Good, not that other power._'

A knock on the door frame drew Albus's attention to a fellow in auror robes who was just getting old enough to have a bit of that salt-and-pepper look in his hair, though not enough yet to make him look distinguished. He looked somewhat familiar but having seen so many of the witches and wizards alive today pass through his doors there were very few that couldn't be said of. Perhaps he should cover the awkwardness of not knowing him with a joke.

"You're a bit older than what we usually take in for students," he said jovially, his eyes twinkling at the man over his half-moon spectacles. "But your eagerness to learn does you credit. You've arrived a good two weeks early, Mister…?"

"Robards," the auror said with a smile, "and I spent enough time in Detention when I was a kid, I don't need to start adding summers to it too. Professor Shacklebolt told me to go to your office anyway though. Whatever happened, I swear it wasn't me," the man chuckled before a look crossed his face as if suddenly reminded why there were aurors guarding the grounds in the first place.

Instead of dwelling on what he didn't know or couldn't change Albus focused instead of what was ahead of him: ridding himself of the trappings of pride.

"If you could follow me," he said pleasantly as he gestured for them to continue on to his office. "Perhaps we'll be able to get you out of here before anyone remembers if you should still be in Detention for something or if you're still missing an essay. And how is Kingsley?" Albus asked as the stabbing pain in his knee began to make him hobble again slightly.

"He's fine," Robards said with more of a professional distance than before. "He likely would've been here himself but he's got the Alley today."

"Has something happened to Alastor?" Albus asked curious as to why they'd change commands like that. "I've heard that he acquitted himself quite well there the other day."

The man seemed to hesitate before answering, perhaps trying to determine if keeping him at Hogwarts also entailed keeping him as uninformed as possible.

"He did," the auror said finally. "Rumor is there might either be a transfer or a promotion in the works, but even that is wild speculation in my opinion because he's supposed to have asked for it himself."

Albus nodded in agreement for neither of those sounded like Alastor at all. His old compatriot was gruff, and admittedly a little rough, but had never seemed to want the burden that leadership carried with it. It was easier to second guess from a seat next to that person rather than open himself up to such criticisms himself.

He chided himself again for thinking poorly of the man. But as for the stalwart and brave fellow leaving the Auror Department? It would take more than Voldemort or a forced retirement to get that old soldier to set his duties down. If he ever did retire though, perhaps Albus should look to him to fill the Defense Against the Dark Arts vacancy they always seemed to have.

"And how is everything at the Alley?" Albus asked as they took the stairwell up to his office. "Was anyone hurt?"

"It's fine. Nothing serious," the man said in a distant tone that rang as a glaring falsehood.

There was something serious going on in Diagon Alley and it had to be bigger than a dragon if he was reading things right. The _Prophet_ from yesterday had been astonishingly pro-Gringotts in their message but even putting events into their proper pro-Ministry frame of reference didn't shed much light on why the alley should be a focal point of contention. Could Cornelius be readying for a genuine attack against them?

His heart swelled with joy. It had been so long since the last confrontation with the goblins that Albus had thought never to see one but now here it was! How lucky those little beings will be to be so dispirited and crushed beneath the onerous weight of toil and servitude. Oh, yes, once their sulfurous nature is forcefully removed then they'd be as happy as house-elves to count their coins for a living. If only he could be there to gently nudge the Minister into seeing what a wonderful thing he'd be doing for the goblins then it would make this banishment from public life so much easier to take.

Albus had to work hard to push those vain wishes away as he pushed open the Griffin Door to his office. The Greater Good held sway everywhere and there were sure to be others around the Minister to advise him to do the right thing. There was certainly no way that the goblins would be allowed to stake a claim to l'île de Flamel or to any research they find in the tower. And no matter what their current cooperation with the I.C.W. may entail that body had always been much easier to sway to the goals of the Greater Good than the Wizengamot, so it would take something truly momentous to make them side against–

_'But could it be?'_ he had to wonder as he stopped a moment to stand and ponder. _'Could the Greater Good really not want the goblins to have that blessing of abject misery and compulsory servitude? Why? For what other Ultimate Purpose would it shape these events for then?'_

"Er – Professor Dumbledore?" the other man in the room with him asked drawing his attention back to the concerns of the present. "Wasn't there something you wanted picked up?"

"Ah, yes. My apologies," Albus said with a smile. "Getting lost in thought is an occupational hazard. I'll just be a moment," he told the man as he went to his desk to decide what to do.

If he was honest with himself, only one of those silver instruments that he never got around to naming would truly be necessary in the future. It dealt with the spiritual health and essence of an individual, be it a person or animal, and may be invaluable to have on hand should Tom's likely course of action involve further mutilation of his soul. Likewise, should the Greater Good clear a path for Harry to survive an encounter with him and thereby be cleansed it would read him as purified.

The one that shrouded all that went on near it from anyone attempting to eavesdrop by magic, showing them only an impenetrable mist through which not even sound could escape, would perhaps find a better home with Alastor. How it would interact with that magical eye of his he didn't know though. Either way, who better to have it than him?

The one that served to expand the mind of its owner was a harder one to place. Albus fought against flattering himself with the thought that his mind had expanded enough but, perhaps, Professor Flitwick might find the charm work on it enlightening. He hesitated before thinking that this gesture might cause Severus or Minerva to seek to mend their rift with him though. Sooner or later the questioners would come and his colleagues would either support him or they would not. Indeed, it might be better if he bore this burden alone, but that was for the Greater Good to decide.

Albus gathered up the shrouding silver… scuttle? – the silver-thing-for-Alastor-to-name along with his remaining robes and boots and returned to the auror. The man looked at him curiously when he explained who the silver tea set-like instrument was for and even more curiously when he explained what he had in mind for the clothes.

"I know there may not be a shop open to take them today, and after the excitement Friday few may want to risk the Alley for a time, but I'm in no rush," he told the auror. "I'd take them myself but…" Albus trailed off since the man already knew why he couldn't go. "I've tried to keep them in good repair so they should be worth enough to trade for something much more basic."

"Oh, I thought it might be… never mind," Mr. Robards said strangely as he shifted the bundle. "Anything in particular you were looking for?"

Instantly his mind leapt to the basic and unpresuming black robes that many people wore, but while it would be symbolically fitting for this nigredo phase he was entering many might take it amiss and attribute a Darker intent to the sudden change. Red, he knew, was out for it would claim the kind of perfection that he wasn't yet entitled to and white, while fitting for a Great Work that was yet incomplete, carried with it connotations of purity in many people's minds. There had to be a happy medium somewhere.

"Perhaps a light gray would be best," he answered finally, "though any gray at all will do in a pinch. Just whatever they happen to have."

Auror Robards took his leave without further ado and it was hard to see him go; Albus would miss his wardrobe but this was what the Greater Good wanted. In fact, if he could have brought himself to add it he would've given the man his fine dressing gown to exchange for something more plain as well. He had to wear something though for as humiliating as it would've been to walk about nude for a day or two he doubted the man would've seen it for the penance it was and only focused on his Albie and dumbleberries.

Tossing that image aside he looked about for more dazzling displays of pretentious pride and vulgar vanity and decided that he definitely had to do something about the desk.

.o0O0o.

_'I can't believe this week!'_ Gilderoy thought to himself as he stormed down a dull and decently deserted Diagon Alley in an absolute huff. _'Not only have I had to suffer the looks of fools for days on end, but it's a week of lost publicity to boot! I can't believe anyone's buying this rubbish!'_

He quickly changed his demeanor and smiled his most award-winning smile as he passed a woman in auror robes. Too many people were looking down on him lately to pass on an opportunity to start making things right. As an Obliviated man once said, _'A smile may not do much for you now but next time they'll smile back; a frown will return to you seven times over._'

Gilderoy managed not to cringe at her eye patch until after they passed each other going in opposite directions; him towards the Leaky Cauldron and she towards the continually closed bank. There were less of them today, thankfully, but that hadn't done anything to have most of the shops open yet. Yes, there'd been some excitement – but that'd been a week ago!

He was starting to think that he was the only one in the country to value hard work. After all, it really was a difficult job prying out secrets, Obliviating their owners and Confunding entire villages to keep them quiet. It looked like no one seemed to appreciate that except him though. True, he'd taken great pains to hide it all but a life of tantalizing mystery was the price of fame and adulation.

The ability to wrap up everything other people should think about you into one not-so-little package – into immaculate wavy blonde hair, an inspiring presence, and a coquettish grin was a kind of magic that'd come as naturally to him as breathing. To that end, he learned long ago that lying was where true genius lies. Why settle for the truth when a pleasant fiction made you rich and other people happy? Yes, your image was certainly a very precious thing.

He would've thought that his own publishers would've been more helpful at keeping it together though! But no, just go ahead and throw another book on the fire; they're only his good name and income they're toying with. He had half a mind to wander around and find a litigator to see if that contract they had said they could do everything they said it said they could do, though that would've been easier if the bank was actually open.

_'Those silly Aurors had been blocking up the place all week,_' Gilderoy thought as he passed shop after shop, almost all of them closed until the Ministry stopped having the hullabaloo they were having with the goblins. _'Who cares if the little knut-grabbers had Hit Wizard hostages? Everyone's got problems; that's no reason to keep people from doing whatever they wanted._'

The one in charge, that Kingly fellow or whatever his name was, had been as dull and unyielding as a block of wood. The man had not only refused his offer to mediate peace talks out of hand but almost laughed at him for giving him invaluable advice on how to lead the rescue mission on the bank without loss of life – on their side at least. Who cared about goblins anyway?

Goblinnogoblining, the famous goblin-exploding spell he seemed to recall hearing about once before was just the thing for the situation. That's assuming, of course, that it was the right incantation anyway. Either way, it sounded good and he was sure it'd work. The man really should've been more grateful.

As bad as he was though his publishers had been worse; how dare they listen to whispers and rumors when they weren't coming from him? Didn't they know who he was? He was Gilderoy Lockhart! He could get the Ministry of Magic involved if he wanted to, perhaps even the Minister himself if he blustered enough. Those selfish, stingy scribblers should've fallen to the floor and folded in an instant against someone with as much celebrity status as him.

He'd gotten to be much better at Memory Charms in recent years – a true Master of them, really! – so the chance was slim that calling in the authorities to make people do what he wanted would work against him. There was no reason for those feather-heads to think that anything he put in his books was in any way fraudulent. Instead of caving in though they'd given him the same bemused grin that everyone else had been giving him since that blasted book signing.

_'Making their minds up on their own indeed,_' Gilderoy scoffed. _'What was the point of putting things in a book if they were going think for themselves? Honestly, people, do use your common sense!'_

The pesky goblins had failed to tell their truly important patrons like him that they were going to close their doors, neglected to send them cheques by mail, and then refused to send them that way at all because of paperwork when he'd asked. Naturally, that unpleasantness on top of the totally misconstrued 'fight' with that old man, the Potter boy being too above himself to know his place as a showpiece for his betters, all those stupid nit-picky questions, and then seeing his own shoemaker tout a product endorsement from the boy had triggered such a tizzy in him that he'd been useless for the rest of the day.

It hadn't gotten any better the next day with Rita Skeeter's story, having the woman pestering him herself with her questions, and seeing that perfect poncy prince Potter practically prance past with a girl on his arm while he'd been stuck with a second day of trying to sign and sell books that no one seemed to want anymore because that… _that boy_ thought he knew more about Defense Against the Dark Arts than an honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League. What madness!

_'Oh yes, I had completely misjudged him,_' the golden-haired fellow thought as he caught a glimpse of his striding reflection in a shop window and stopped to admire himself. _'He's no match for the glory that is Gilderoy,_' he thought with a smile as he arranged his robes just so and struck his most inspirational standing pose. _'But that same spark, the same undeniable drive for stardom at any cost is strong in him. I will NOT be eclipsed!'_

Looking back at his reflection he was shocked to see the sheer power, determination, and confidence he seemed to radiate. Well, he had been radiating it for an instant before that shock shocked him out of it and into some shocked staring. He quickly composed himself in case anyone was watching and glanced back to the bank.

_'Perhaps there was something to learn from that whole goblin thing after all,_' the incredibly famous and talented author extraordinaire thought as he pondered the situation. _'The threat – just the thought – that violence could come at any moment, without warning, had sent wizards running and stopped the Ministry in their tracks. Merlin's beard, even taking hostages wasn't enough to make them strike back! Now that was power if I ever saw it._'

Replicating that would necessitate a bit of a change in his image, or at least his public demeanor from time to time. If there was anything that'd get him back the respect he so richly deserved it'd be the certainty that with the eminent Gilderoy Lockhart comes the threat of imminent violence. Ooo! No, danger! That's so much more alluring.

_'Gilderoy Lockhart, the wizard cloaked in danger. Oh yes, that works so well!_' he smiled to himself as he gazed into the shop window and tried to rekindle authoritarian magic.

Unfazed by his lack of complete success he continued on his way. Because of the bank being closed, and no one feeling properly respectful of his renown to simply give him what he wanted, his publishers had been his last option. Until those crummy quill-twirlers tracked down his falsely fawning phony foreign friends to verify his story though there'd be no money coming from them.

That left him with all but empty pockets, and even worse, those busybody book merchants said they had some fussy bylaw or sub-something-or-other to keep him away from his own money if they found out his books weren't completely accurate. The nerve of them was galling.

A week, a whole week! He'd been in tough spots before in the last several years but never one that had lasted this long. Well, not since that three week period he'd had to disappear when he hadn't gotten everyone in that Chesty-Krummy Bohemian village properly Confunded and the warlock behind _Gadding With Ghouls_ had snapped out of it and threatened to kill him for what he'd done, but that was years and years ago.

Going back to Obliviate and Confund them all again had probably been the most heroic thing he'd ever done. It was almost a shame that he couldn't tell anyone about it. Maybe he'd come up with a way of putting something like that into the next little adventure he had, only changed so that he had to charge in against a cadaverous cannibal cabal before they could – oh, he didn't know, curse a child or something.

_'Yes, "Gilderoy Lockhart and the Cursed Child" the banner will read when I make my glorious return,_' he thought, the image so clear to him he could almost see it fluttering in the breeze. _'Maybe I'll hire a troupe of actors and make it a play – a two-part play! – just to squeeze out as much money from people as possible without ever giving those pathetic publishers a knut. That would serve them right._'

Regardless, even to get to that point he'd have to have the public's good will on his side and that left him in quite a pickle. Book signings and fan questions could be tricky things because more often than not his fans knew more about his books than he did just from having read them so many times. If there was anything – one possible tiny inkling of a flaw in the perfect package that was Gilderoy – it was an odd… delay in being able to come up with ways to explain how things in the books really did work out when you thought about it and how everything between them really made sense when you looked at it.

Perhaps he should've had a less thrilling and engaging writer write his books for him but it wasn't like someone that talented, discreet, and susceptible to Memory Charms was to be found on every street corner. No, the grubby little neck-bearded man he had was perfect, and it wasn't like he was going to pay him. After all, he had no sense of style or presence at all and that was the most important part of being an author. He just wished he had the man on hand to whisper inventive answers in his ear, but of course that was impossible since the man wouldn't remember writing the books in the first place.

Perhaps his greatest asset in combating devoted fan questions though has been the devoted fans themselves. So often during those question and answer periods they would come up with the most inventive solutions to the very things he had such a difficult time to explain, then all he had to do was give them his most winning smile and congratulate them for figuring it out. Cobbling all those answers together was how he was able to conjure up that whole cock and bull autobiography, _Magical Me_, so people would know enough not to ask him those stupid questions anymore.

_'But how are you supposed to stop them from asking them if they won't buy the book?'_ he thought incredulously as he passed through the archway to leave the alley. _'And what's with their insistence that I demonstrate things? They should already know how incredibly talented I am, it says so in every book!'_

As Gilderoy entered the Leaky Cauldron he put on his most confident smile and adopted his most casual sauntering walk. He waved to the barman though the man wasn't looking at him and returned friendly greetings that distant nonexistent people gave in case any of the few patrons who were brave enough to be near the deserted alley happened to be looking his way. He wasted no time in making his way to the floo though since none there looked fawning enough to rush forward with an answer as to why he would've let himself get beat by some decrepit old man.

Ash filled his mouth and he coughed as he twirled his way through the nowhere land of the floo network. He hated the floo but taking the Knight Bus was beyond him with his lack of funds and Apparition would do his reputation more harm than good since he'd likely leave half a leg behind when he splinched himself. If the choice was between being temporarily disheveled or on the ground crying and bleeding though he knew which one he'd pick every time.

Shoved out of the flames, his eyes opened in panic as his left shoe slipped on the grimy floor while his right didn't causing him to be dangerously unbalanced. Things weren't helped at all as ash fell into his eyes, making him tear up and threatened to make him sneeze. After he righted himself, thanking his lucky stars that the common room of the Hog's Head was abandoned except for the inn keeping barman at this time of the day, he whipped out his wand and cast a quick Cleaning Charm on his face and shoulders before seeing to his hair.

Obviously concerned with his resident celebrity being in distress, the old innkeeper made his way over.

"Pay up or get out," the man scowled at him unexpectedly.

"Excuse me?" Gilderoy asked bewilderedly.

"Don't you 'excuse me' me. You heard," the ungrateful man said, completely ignoring the fact that simply having a famous man like him staying in his hovel probably doubled his patronage. "I'm not running a poor house and you still owe me for yesterday. So you pay up or get out."

Putting on the sternest face he could possibly conjure, he gripped his wand tightly and puffed himself up in what he'd thought would be a threatening pose.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" the new Gilderoy thundered at the man.

A quick flick of a wand he never saw coming sent him flying back to land on his back with a thud.

"You're the guy who owes me money," the irascible man replied.

_'We'll see what you think in a second,_' he thought, grabbing his fallen wand and turning to–

He woke to find himself still flat on his back, only this time in a tiny dingy alley with his wand in his mouth and stray cats curled up on him for warmth.

"That wasn't supposed to happen at all," Gilderoy said to himself as he shooed away the furry little hairballs. _'At least he left my trunks though,_' he thought as he got to his feet and cast another round of Cleaning Charms. _'I wouldn't have put it past him to–_'

Scrambling around to check his pockets he found that he couldn't find his money.

"That old goat stole from me!" he said with half a mind to march back up there and give him a piece of his mind… on second thought though he decided not. What the man had taken amounted to less than a third of what he owed so when you thought about it he had actually come out ahead. After checking to make sure all his clothes, hairnets, books, curlers, photographs, and fancy quills were accounted for he cast a quick Locomotion Charm to get his trunks to lead the way out of the alley.

Chasing down his trunks and getting them under control took a bit of doing but since the old coot had ditched him on the far side of Hogsmeade he didn't think too many people noticed. Hogwarts Castle dominated the region and though it was the only place that was truly worthy of being his home – though preferably it would've been with a nice kingly crown involved – Gilderoy had been avoiding it. The last thing he needed at the moment was to be linked too closely to Albus Dumbledore.

Walking up the long road towards the castle grounds he couldn't help but to shudder at what had happened to that man. Yes, if there was one thing that this past week had taught him was that the way down from the heights of celebrity could be hard and fast indeed and that man's fall had made the little rough patch he was having look good by comparison. No group held an emergency meeting just to kick you out of it unless you were well and truly poisonous to be around and the I.C.W. had done precisely that.

But even with that happening this past weekend, the Ministry waging a publicity campaign with Gringotts over gold, land, and captives while the I.C.W. tried to do the same over Dumbledore, this had been a completely wasted opportunity for the person who mattered most: Gilderoy Lockhart himself. If that whole mess at the book signing hadn't happened he could have strolled into the Ministry, flashed a few smiles, shaken a few hands, slapped a few backs, and walked out the newly minted Chief Warlock on his way to get those pesky knut polishers to see reason.

_'I mean really,_' Gilderoy thought to himself as the mental picture of _Prophet_ after _Prophet_ singing his praises as he soared higher and higher played out in his mind. _'Who else in the country had the legendary star power to wow everyone into compliance? Now that Dumbledore's done with it's not like the boy could do it for them._'

With that new accomplishment under his belt all it would've taken was some smiles, a little bragging, a few stories about how wonderful he was and this whole international kerfuffle would've been behind them in no time too. With the goblins pacified, the Ministry enraptured, and Dumbledore well in hand he would've been a shoo-in for that Super Mugglewumpus position those internationals took their orders from. After that the public outcry would've been too great and they'd have no choice but to name him Minister of Magic and Headmaster of Hogwarts to boot.

_'Now I'll be lucky if they let me stay on until next year at this rate,_' he thought sourly of how those lofty dreams had faded away with the I.C.W. and Ministry coming to 'an understanding' about the headmaster and the busybodies now working towards easing tensions with the goblins too. _'That old man lured me here by bandying that boy's name about but I swear he must've known that he was bad luck. There's nothing else to explain it._

_'Oh yes, the best-selling 'Ida Beeman' couldn't take the competition so he thought he'd trap the two of us in the same place and watch as the boy took me down by accident through sheer thickety thickness. That's not going to happen, Dumbledore, I'm too smart for you and the world knows your game now._'

With as much as Gilderoy was coming to despise even the thought of the grasping little fame seeker for the wealth of opportunities he'd unknowingly ruined for him, he supposed he had to give the boy grudging thanks for that. In trying to take out the obviously superior author, Albus 'Ida Beeman' Dumbledore had been struck down with his own wand's backfire by getting too close to that cursed child himself. It almost made him wish he knew the whole story about how that happened, but not even Merlin would be able to get him to go nearer that boy than he had to, so figuring that out was out of the question.

His shoes were starting to pinch his toes from the long walk but even with all that he felt a certain cheer and a spring in his step as the old school grounds came closer. Perhaps it was the rare weather but he felt so good that he actually started smiling in greeting a good bit earlier than he absolutely had to as the aurors drew near. Yes, all told it was a remarkably fine day, plus, interacting with these fine people could be just the start to the turnaround he needed.

"Mister Lockhart," a slightly graying man said in greeting as he got to the gates.

"It's _Professor_ Lockhart, actually," Gilderoy said with his most winning smile and running a hand playfully through his golden hair.

"We'd heard," the other man said as his wand scanned over both him and his trunks. "What we hadn't heard was that you'd be arriving today."

"Yes, well," he said with a nonchalant dismissal, trying to make it seem that he'd had a wealth of other options. "My life isn't all book signings, photo ops, and little adventures," he chuckled out his rote response before chiding himself for reminding them all of that blasted embarrassment.

"Good thing, I guess, or you'd always be black and blue," that insolent plain-faced auror said cheekily before he shot off a quick burst of white towards the castle.

Feeling the beginnings of a tizzy coming on Gilderoy couldn't hold himself back.

"Oh, do use your common sense!" he cried at the somehow familiar-looking man as the secret-stealing corner of his mind wondered what that spell he'd cast was. "I'm a highly trained adventurer whose life is full of danger. If I go about getting into duels with every old warlock who wanted to take a pop at me then someone around us is bound to get hurt!"

"That's actually a very good point," the fellow conceded. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose taking the temporary embarrassment in order to deescalate the situation was the right thing to do," the man said apologetically.

_'Good going Gilderoy! I knew you could do it!'_ he cheered to himself as his first genuinely happy grin in quite a while bloomed on his face before his good mood started to sink a bit. Since he was well away from everyone when he'd thought of the excuse, sending it to the _Prophet_ or his publishers now might as well come with an 'everything that follows is a lie' disclaimer. _'Well, better late than never,_' he supposed.

"Out of professional curiosity, what was that spell you used?" he asked the auror with a falsely knowing grin. "It looked awfully familiar."

"As well, it should," Mr. Salty-hair said. "It's the Patronus Charm, only this one's been adapted to ferry messages. Kingsley came up with it, I think, to aid in communication."

"Ah, of course," Gilderoy said confidently as the man opened the gateway to the grounds. "Good ole Kingsley; it was clever of him to think of using it. I tell you, if I've used it once I've used it a hundred times. Your face looks familiar though, have we run into each other before, say in Hogsmeade or elsewhere?"

"I'm afraid that new regulations say that we're not at liberty to discuss our schedules," the man said in an evasive way he liked, "but I have been around."

"Ah," he said with a wink and tapping the side of his nose. "Say no more then, I completely understand."

"Anyway, someone should be up there to greet you," the not-so bad fellow said with a gesture to the school.

"Of course," the dashingly handsome author said with a whip-like wand wave that made his trunks shoot through the gates and down the lane towards the school. "And don't you worry what wily old Albus will be up to while I'm here," he said with a charming grin and a wink. "Any funny business and he'll have Gilderoy Lockhart to deal with."

Leaving the aurors behind he hurried off to find where his runaway luggage had ended up. As luck would have it his charm work had proven absolutely masterful again and his spell had sent the trunks directly to the school itself rather than marauding off into the lake. The more peculiar sight though came in the form of Dumbledore himself who'd seemed to have drawn the honor of welcoming him.

_'Merlin's beard, the man's lost his mind,_' he thought aghast at the drab old robes the other man was wearing. Being all of one piece, the brackish milky gray didn't match his silvery beard at all, and no doubt they were more than a little threadbare. In short, they were nothing like what the formerly influential wizard had worn in any of the photos he'd seen before.

_'No wonder they threw him out of the Wizengamot, it looks like he's wearing my great aunt's night gown! They might as well throw him in Azkaban for crimes against fashion. And best not to even get me started on those sandals!'_

"Professor Lockhart," the elderly internationally wanted criminal called in greeting.

"Professor Dumbledore, if it isn't the man himself," he replied jovially as house-elves appeared to take his trunks away.

"Oh, please," the older man said with put upon humility as he looked over his half-moon glasses. "It's just Albus. It's been quite some time since you've been a student here, Gilderoy, so there's no need to stand on formality."

"Of course, headmaster," he said formally, not wanting to get even conversationally nearer the other man.

"I've taken the liberty of having your rooms prepared," Dumbledore said as he motioned for him to follow him inside. "You're free to pick another office or classroom from what we have available if you wish, though I'd ask you to do so before the start of term."

"I'm sure that whatever you have picked out will be more than up to the job," Gilderoy said with a casual wave as they started up a stairway though it wouldn't have surprised him if the man had stuffed him into a closet to teach. "Hogwarts has always taken care of its students; I can't imagine it'd be any different for its illustrious staff."

With a slight hiss of inhaled breath Dumbledore leaned more on the banister for a moment.

"Are – are you alright?" he asked the other man.

"As well as can be expected," the headmaster said with a pained smile as he started up again, though he did note a decided hobble to the man's walk and wondered what was going on there. "Just an old dueling injury that's been more painful of late," Dumbledore explained after a moment as if he'd actually asked the question.

"Ah, of course," Gilderoy said with a smile as everything suddenly made sense.

_'How could I have been so blind?'_ he asked himself. _'The man's a genius – though obviously not as much of one as I. Still, the drab robes, the humility, the pained smile, and now the limp… It's all an act! How else could the man ever hope to get out of seeing the inside of Azkaban than to remind everyone of that Grindelwald fellow and play up the 'I'm such a helpless old man' angle? It really is brilliant._'

"Your summer's been well, I trust?" Dumbledore asked rubbing salt into his wounded pride.

"Oh, it's had its ups and downs," he said dismissively, thinking that two could play this game. "They begged me to stay and help with this goblin nonsense and smooth over the international business you started of course, but I'm not really at liberty to discuss all that," he added smoothly. "But I couldn't stay, as I told the Minister himself, there's no telling how much damage could be inflicted on the future generation if they didn't have a proper teacher here to teach them."

"I can imagine," the smut-peddler said as he hobbled along beside him. "I do have a bit of unfortunate news to relate though," the older wizard continued. "Due to some… misunderstandings there's been a bit of a budgetary shortfall which may cause us to have to tighten our belts to make do. And while I have hope that this is just a temporary concern and easily remedied, I thought you should be forewarned," the headmaster said with another pained smile.

At first he thought that the meals here might suffer but then the man's meaning became clear.

_'That traitorous old fraud!'_ he thought, using a great deal of effort to keep his growing tizzy from showing on his face. _'Conniving to ruin my reputation and book deals aren't enough it seems; now he's trying to rob me of my salary! How dare he play the old man game with me?'_

"I do hope these rooms make up for that potential inconvenience though," Dumbledore said as if nothing untoward was said as they moved down the third floor corridor. "As you see, being so close to the main stairway means it's well-traveled, which cuts down on the number of tardy students you'll have while at night it should prove quiet. There's a boys' bathroom on this level and a girls' one level down, and with you having such a fondness for the written word you've no doubt noticed how close we are to the Library."

"Of – of course," Gilderoy said perturbed at the man's manners for making it the completely wrong environment to go off on the old headmaster for his scheme. No doubt the man wanted him to do just that though so he could go hobbling around to all the other professors and immediately spread how rude and ungrateful he'd been, further trashing his reputation before he'd had a chance to make a good impression with the other staff. A full charm offensive would definitely be necessary.

"Well, here we are," Dumbledore said as they arrived at the door in question. "I'll just leave you to make yourself at home and if you need anything the password to reach me is: ad maius bonum. I hope you find everything to your liking."

As he watched him hobble away Gilderoy had to wonder what the old man was hoping to gain by continuing to run him down now that what he'd been exposed but eventually gave it up as a bad job. Obviously the man never thought about anyone but himself and if he couldn't cling to the heights of fame then he was going to drag anyone he could down with him. What a pathetic little man he was.

Pushing the door aside he got the first look at his new office... and it was wonderful! It was large, had plenty of light, a nice view out the window, and – most importantly of all – an absolutely smashing desk and a chair to match that looked as if they were made for a king. Staying here wouldn't be bad at all.

"Now that's what I call star treatment!" he beamed.

.o0O0o.

Crouched on the floor on his hands and knees, Barchoke slowly inched his head up until his eyes peaked above the window. He'd been told that the aurors had been pulled back, and none of the people he'd sent to confirm it had been attacked, but he still wanted to see it for himself; unfortunately that meant actually having to put himself at risk. Inching his way up even further he slowly changed position until he could see down to the front of the bank itself.

_ 'One: Left. Two: Right. Three: In the alley patrolling up. And four…,_' he counted, his eyes darting around intently seeking auror robes. _'Where's Four? They said they weren't hiding anywhere; where's number Four?'_ he thought before movement at the far end of the alley caught his attention. _'Ah, there it is: patrolling down from the Leaky Cauldron._'

"Ha!" he cried triumphantly before darting back out of sight. "We've got 'em," Barchoke said happily as he crawled cackling back to his desk before standing up, straightening his suit, and leaving the room. It had been the first time he'd been in his office since this whole madness began but he was glad he'd come since seeing really was believing.

So far his bets had paid off, making today a pretty good day to be a goblin. As he hurried down the hallway though that deep-rooted sense of self-preservation made him wonder just how much further they could afford to push the Ministry before they decided to push back. With them caving under the pressure and pulling the aurors back from a good two dozen to a paltry four that were there for show, something made him think that they could push them quite a bit further and maybe take it all – as long as they didn't let things go to their heads.

All-in-all he'd been surprised with how well things have been working; everyone's ideas had worked together very well, even when they disagreed. Their inability to make six saddles and fill out an additional Flight team by the time they needed to and having to settle for five instead, had led Gutripper to point out the need to bolster their lobby defenses and suggest putting that sixth dragon there. Overseer Fillast had been resistant to the idea for the sake of his precious marble floors but once overruled had quickly arranged everything to keep the dragon restrained, taken care of, and under control for as long as they needed.

As it had been though his plan for what to do with the captives they'd taken on the Isle had been a hard thing to sell. When they'd heard that he wanted to make the Ministry have to buy their hit wizards back by agreeing to their terms Slaggran, Fillast, and Alkrat had been very nervous though what Braglast had thought was anyone's guess; he was starting to think the Dodgy Deals Supervisor had had his tongue removed. Looking at the lack of support written on their faces had him grasping for a way out for it called for the kind of iron stomach that goblins had learned from long experience to chunk out the window in exchange for comfortable safety.

_'Several goblin heads are better than one though,_' Barchoke thought as he passed the Halfwit's roughhewn statue on his way to the fliplift. _'And keys to someone else's vault can be found in the strangest of places._'

While he had been reaching out to Lichfield for his thoughts the key to the riches behind that particular vault door had been found by Slaggran himself: Rita Skeeter.

_'If he's going to meet with her,_' the pudgy goblin had wheezed, _'why don't we just get her to write what we want?'_

After that everything suddenly seemed doable. Gutripper and the guards might be ready to fight and die but everyone else were bankers. Their battlefield had always been fine print and what you could put down on paper, meaning their form of bravery came from something different: fighting a war of words. If there was something he'd wished he could've seen in the last week though it was the looks on the Minister's, Mockridge's, and Umbridge's faces when that special edition of the _Prophet_ hit them.

Giving her exclusivity on a story she claimed would be seen around the world had seen Miss Skeeter become an energetic advocate for the goblin side of things, at least in that first issue. Lichfield had warned that she was liable to turn on them if pressed though so he'd taken care to keep her as far from Gutripper as possible. In the days that followed, while the _Prophet_ may not have been as sycophantically pro-goblin as they'd been pro-Ministry in the past, some kind of odd neutrality had developed that still seemed to be generally working in their favor so far.

The graphic story of brave goblins laying down their lives to protect the wizarding world's gold with fire and blood, only to be stabbed in the back and burned by the Ministry that had attempted to rob them, had made the explanation of how the Ministry was truly the one to blame for the panic in the alley so readily accepted that he was surprised that no one had lost their heads – er, jobs – over it yet. Indeed the excitement might have finally woken those old stodgy wizards up to the fact that the goblin people were a separate part of the magical world and wasn't a force to be trifled with, at least as far as the _Prophet_ goes.

Barchoke had to marvel at anything getting done in the human world at all if people could bungle things so badly and still be allowed to run anything. He couldn't be too judgmental though since something similar had happened to him when he'd been a teller. Closing down and cashing out a hereditary account when the person who'd controlled it had wanted to disappear during the war wasn't illegal, nor were there any rules or regulations against it, so he hadn't been terminated. That didn't mean it wasn't _highly_ discouraged though, which was how he found himself working under his father's direction as what amounted to an unpaid assistant.

While the Ministry still tried to change the story into them 'standing up for British sovereignty,' 'struggling to bring renegade goblins under control,' and 'fighting to free the hostages' the few humans that Gringotts was allowing to slip in through their secret ways reported that most people thought that was Fudge trying to put a good face on his mismanagement. The _Prophet_ had even stoked the feeling against him by giving daily updates on the Ministry's failures while hailing the goblins for their gold testing plan, the confirmation the Flamels' deaths, and working with the I.C.W. when the Ministry itself refused to.

The shopkeepers in the alley had turned out to be an unforeseen ally too. Since the whole issue with the dragon commerce had been driven away from their shops entirely, which was something they felt in their pocketbooks rather quickly with the start of the school year fast approaching. After only days there were angry letters to the editor appearing in the _Prophet_ demanding that the Ministry do something to settle things down with the goblins and reassure the public that Diagon Alley was safe but it hadn't been until today that the Ministry had caved, removed the aurors but for a token force, and falsely claimed that progress was underway through back channels.

As far as he knew the only back channel progress that'd been made had been the Ministry and the I.C.W. coming to some kind of "understanding" about Dumbledore, though the particulars of it were still unclear. That hadn't kept the _Prophet_ taking it as a good step forward for the country and publicly asking that they start poking Gringotts about releasing the captives. Still, Barchoke supposed all the activity with the _Prophet_ might amount to a wash since they also called for the Ministry to 'examine the failures in Diagon Alley,' so maybe they were just being opportunistic; if so, he could respect that.

Inserting his key to call the lift and hitting the button for the fifth floor soon had him feeling like he was going to fall to the floor and ram into the ceiling as the whole thing suddenly lurched upwards at breakneck speeds. If it weren't for whatever magic they used to keep people's feet on the floor who knows how much they'd be liable for in terms of damages caused by injury? As much as he liked goblin efficiency, what was wrong with slowly going from one floor to another like they did at the Ministry?

Barchoke pushed those thoughts aside as he pushed open the door and walked across the stone floor towards the doors to the Overseers' meeting place. Since virtually every Overseer had been drawn in to work on one single thing most of their meetings in the last week had been informally done. After being excluded for so long though Marsh had been insistent in calling a formal one and as long as he still had the rank of Overseer it was beyond anyone to deny him that; that hadn't stopped him from making the human wait though.

"–What I'm saying is that he's put us all at risk," the human Overseer said as the door to the meeting room opened and he should've expected something like this from the man. "We've never been in a weaker position; we need to get out while we still can."

"You humans are in the weaker position," Barchoke countered as he entered, drawing confidence from the dagger he could feel in his inner suit pocket. "The goblin people have never been stronger," he said as he quickly scanned the room while he made his way to his seat close to the door. "The Ministry can't even get their way with a newspaper, what makes you think they're in any position to win against us?"

He didn't know how long Marsh's attacks against him had gone on but that glance had told him all he needed to know about why he'd been allowed to make them at all. Gutripper wasn't there; he must have stayed behind on the Isle of Gringotts to oversee the I.C.W.'s activities and make sure they didn't run off with anything. Well, if the Enforcer wasn't here to threaten the human to keep him in line then Barchoke would just have to do it himself.

"You might feel like your 'people' – however you want to define that–," Marsh said with a dismissive wave, "are winning but all you're doing is stumbling blindly into a trap. The I.C.W. and the Ministry have already come to terms as to who gets to deal with their Dumbledore issues first, and if they're working together on that then they're likely to work together on other issues too."

Fillast looked over to him to see his reaction to this concern while Slaggran looked like the latest cat he'd eaten was having kittens in his stomach. Barchoke had to admit that if all three institutions had been run by goblins then the whole thing would've been fertile ground for the kind of backstabbing and bloody betrayals the human seemed to be implying. He thought he'd seen enough of Delacour in the last week to know that he was not a man to be bought or swayed lightly, if at all. Except for the prospect at spending more time in Flamel's old Observatory the man seemed to pride himself at being neutral for some reason, which just struck him as odd.

"They've already called for us to come to some sort of settlement on these hostages of yours," Marsh continued, still following the Ministry line on the whole affair. "What's going to happen if you keep refusing? Sooner or later the Ministry _will_ win out in the _Prophet_ and all we'll read about then is how no one's seen any of the hostages in weeks and how horrible it is for the families.

"The I.C.W. isn't so deaf as to be able to ignore that," the man said seeming to come to the point of this little romp. "The Ministry will be able to sway them to their side in a heartbeat once that happens. You may have cowed the Ministry for now but once they join with the I.C.W., who already has access to both Flamel's Island and the bank, they'll have a force in here faster than you can blink. If you don't release the hostages now you're putting the entire bank at risk for nothing."

Barchoke had to think about that a moment. There were several issues there he wanted to stab at but knowing which to respond to was difficult when whatever he said was likely to make its way back to the Ministry before the day was out. If the human wasn't there all those concerns could be more easily taken care of between the rest of them but he couldn't just tell him to get out without a valid reason and showing to the others that he was wrong.

It was at times like these that he really disliked the fact that binding contracts and non-disclosure agreements they had only worked if the one signing it actually agreed to what it said because he'd really like to sit Marsh down with a couple of guards and have them 'talk him into signing one.' In the end though it was the last bit of what he'd said that'd proven too irksome to ignore.

"How long have there been Marshes in this country?" he asked the human sitting across the way.

"Pardon?" the man asked curiously, the look on the man's face making him realize the multiple ways that question could've been taken.

_'If he'd been anything like Lichfield the man probably would've smarted off with "as long as there've been swamps,_"' the goblin chided himself.

"Your family," Barchoke clarified. "How long have they been around? Your Account became Hereditary in the sixteen hundreds, didn't it? Three hundred years," he asked knowing very well exactly how long it had been.

"Almost four hundred," Marsh testily correct him as he seemed to try to figure out where he was going with this. "The family history has our first mention being even older, back in the late fifteen hundreds, which isn't surprising–," he hastened to add, "–since there are well documented cases of pureblood families refusing formal education well before that time. We've long maintained that we're one of the formerly reclusive lines of the wild wizards of Wales but nevertheless, we were well established before Secrecy was imposed, why do you ask?"

"Huh," he grunted as the way he'd wanted to attack the issue crashed right in front of him and he had to shift to something else. "Very interesting. We goblins have been here for over a thousand years," Barchoke said firmly, "and we were footing the bill for that island for two hundred years before your line ever lied about where they came from."

Marsh stood in outrage and Barchoke reached inside his suit to grab his dagger as he stood as well. Hitting a 'pureblood' in the family myth never failed to ruffle their feathers but at least the man had learned enough from the last encounter to not draw his wand. Something snapped together in his head and he almost smiled as a way to permanently sideline Marsh bloomed in his mind.

"You'd fight to defend a story that you can't prove is true," he shot at the human. "What makes you think we'll do any less to defend what we know to be ours? Everything on that island has been bought and paid for many times over and the Ministry's acknowledged the receipt. No whinging about it can change that fact; what's ours is ours and the Isle of Gringotts belongs to the goblin people.

"You may think of us as bankers but once we had land and a kingdom of our own," Barchoke continued as cold prickles of excitement danced along his skin from his arms and shoulders all the way up to his shaven scalp as he thought of the glory days of goblin history. "Now that we have a small part of that again you think we won't do everything we can to protect it? But even if your Ministry were foolish enough to raid the bank they'll never find that island or those criminals; they may, however, find out a lot of interesting information about you though."

"What do you mean?" the human asked uncertainly while a small streak of metal flashed next to him, drawing Barchoke's eyes to the ever-silent Braglast only to find what whatever it was had vanished again.

_'D-did he just offer to kill Marsh?'_ he wondered. _'Or was that a threat against doing so? If that goblin insists on not talking, can't he make his intent clearer than that?'_

"Are you telling us," Barchoke said instead, "that in all your _Prophet_ reading this week that you failed to notice that Vault 713 had never been mentioned? Why would we keep that a secret if it weren't to protect the bank and the Hogwarts Accounting Department specifically? It seems to me that we've actually been doing a rather good job at keeping your job safe while your investigation is underway. How is that coming, by the way?" he asked pointedly, pressing the advantage.

"Not well," Marsh said as beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. "Which isn't surprising when no one in my department can even enter the building!" the man said defensively. "That's why we need to stop all this nonsense."

"Ah, well, if you're truly interested in the facts coming out and protecting the bank as much as you say, then you should be all for releasing the details of Vault 713 to the public," he said with the same vicious thrill he'd felt when laying waste to quickly forgotten Lognot.

"Wait – what?!" Slaggran interjected in a shocked wheeze as Marsh looked like he wanted to collapse back into his chair and start wheezing himself. "The Ministry would go nuts just thinking that we're involved somehow and who knows what conclusions they'd jump to!"

"Oh no-no-no!" odd little Alkrat added with an excited shake of his head. "This is no good. They be taking everything."

"I'm afraid that I would have to agree," Bankor said, allowing Marsh compose himself well enough to take his seat again with as much dignity as he could as Barchoke did the same. "After bowing to public pressure to step down from a wartime footing in the alley there will be those within the Ministry who would prompt the Minister to take this as an opportunity to show that he's not weak when it comes to goblin matters. After our impressive display of force at the Isle of Gringotts, any response they give would likely be equally forceful," he said in the same obsequious voice he always used.

"Oh, undoubtedly," Barchoke agreed with a smile to the little minister before turning to address Slaggran. "The Ministry may see it as an opportunity to attack goblin credibility but we have to remember exactly what it is that we're dealing with here. They'll be so excited to attack any part of the bank they can get their hands on that they'd commit themselves to doing so before they ever realize that Vault 713 belongs to the Hogwarts Accounting Department, and that's all staffed by humans."

"So the humans are still at fault," Slaggran said bewilderingly. "All attacking us would do is make us innocent victims."

"Exactly, and that's not without its own opportunities as well. The _Prophet_ would certainly want a comment from us on the issue," he said shooting a glance to Marsh to say that he'd make sure they'd ask for one, "so while Gringotts Bank would lament the thought that any of our departments could have had anything to do with violating our own security–"

"–It was the Ministry's actions in the alley that made us think they couldn't be trusted," Fillast filled in for him. "When we can't trust them not to go back on their word once they put their seal to something then how could we trust them with this?" he asked rhetorically.

"We could likewise point out that the entire security issue could have been avoided if the Hogwarts account had never been placed in human hands in the first place," Bankor added thoughtfully. "Mockridge would be irate at the thought but–"

"The Hogwarts Governors would never allow their money to fall into goblin hands!" Marsh said heatedly.

"Their money is already in our hands," Barchoke countered. "We're the only ones that handle investments in the entire country, and we have their personal accounts as well."

"Their personal accounts are one thing but Hogwarts is an ancient and venerable institution–"

"So what are they going to do, withdraw the money?" he batted back at the irritating human. "They can't; not one knut is leaving this bank until all the gold's been checked and if you think the Ministry will front them you can guess again because they're in the same mine cart."

"Neither of them will allow–!"

A quick flash of steel was seen an instant before a dagger gouged the stone table and spelled an end to whatever Marsh thought wouldn't happen. All eyes were drawn to the one who'd done it, not least because it was the last one they thought ever would.

_'Good Gotts,_' Barchoke thought as he stared at Braglast. _'Is he actually going to speak?'_

Whatever was going on in that silent goblin's mind though never passed his lips. Instead he held their attention and directed it with a pointed finger to Bankor and held it there for a moment before withdrawing the dagger and sitting again in silence. An uncertain stillness hung in the air after that.

_'Well, with something as articulate as that who could say a word against it?'_ he thought as he glanced at the others to see if they had any idea what the creepy goblin's point was.

After a moment it was Bankor himself who spoke.

"That's a very good point," he said as if the other goblin had said anything at all. "You see, Overseer Marsh, everything you're protesting against has already happened with respect to another venerable institution: the Ministry of Magic itself."

"What?" the man asked, looking on in horror as his job faced the chopping block.

"While one can never know how involved another department gets in the affairs of their clients in terms of their day-to-day operations," Bankor said equivocatingly, "suffice it to say that we in Ministerial Matters would never presume to tell the Ministry how it should allocate its funds or raise their revenues. Instead, we safeguard said revenue, distribute allocations to the various departments' vaults in accordance with their budgets, and provide an up to date accounting of what remains. All of the responsibility for proper management and care is up to the Ministry itself to provide while we dedicate ourselves to offering counsel on various policies to further the wizarding economy.

"As Overseer Barchoke correctly pointed out though," he continued with a gesture to him, "their money remains in our vaults – and will for the foreseeable future – and though there has been some… concern about how they will pay their employees while we are still at an impasse," the goblin stated with his delicate choice of words. "With no other option available to them, I foresee no complication in them switching over to cheques in the very near future."

"Your point?" Marsh asked.

"His point is that your department is unnecessary," Barchoke answered for him. "There may be more hands-on management involved than a typical landed hereditary account but none of that has to be our concern. If the Ministry wants to go after us for your department being implicated in the theft of the Stone then so be it, we can hand them control of the books and not be any worse off for it. If anything we'll have a lot less of your kind walking the halls and on our payroll."

"Oh! That be a very good point, yes," Alkrat added happily. "We be the downsizing."

"Hogwarts is a semi-autonomous entity," the human complained. "That control isn't ours to give away; it belongs to the Board of Governors."

"And they can make that case to the Ministry themselves when they ask for their books back," Barchoke swatted back at him. "It'll mean more work for the Board, if they're successful, but maybe they can hire what remains of your department to do it for them. Either way, both the Governors and the Ministry will be looking for someone to blame and since plans for Dumbledore has already been arranged, who do you think that will be, Mister Overseer of the Hogwarts Accounting Department?"

Once again Marsh stood abruptly but for once Barchoke had no fear of him.

"I came here to voice my concerns about what's going on in this bank, not to be threatened or undermined for things I can't control–," the man protested nervously.

"–Then I suggest you look to the affairs of your department and leave the affairs of the Goblin Nation to the rest of us," he said with the dismissal plain on his voice. "And for your sake," Barchoke added when the man turned towards the door in a furious huff. "I do hope that the Ministry doesn't decide to do anything particularly stupid; these meetings just wouldn't be the same without you."

After that the human left them without another word and he could only wonder if his threat had worked.

"You really think that we've never been stronger?" Slaggran wheezed out in question once the doors were closed. "Everything seemed to be going okay but I didn't want to look stupid by saying the wrong thing."

"Definitely," he replied. "You don't back down like they have unless you're unwilling to go all the way and attack. So no matter what Marsh might think, he's wrong on that."

"Well that makes me feel better," the other goblin muttered to himself nervously running his hands long his pudgy belly.

"I've observed that deadly conflict, the likes of which Overseer Marsh described, is a very serious concern for humans," Bankor said in a deeply ingrained attempt to smooth things over with the humans who weren't there. "What we might feel at the loss of an exceptionally close friend or immediate family member, they extend, to varying degree, to a much wider network of individuals throughout their population - even to some they may not even know," the diplomatic goblin explained.

"Why would they do that?" Fillast asked with a look of baffling curiosity that said that they were plainly wrong to do so.

"I only have conjecture to go on as to why," Bankor hedgingly lectured, "but Mister Hobson is of the opinion that it's human nature for them to be more sympathetic towards those they perceive to be most like themselves and hostile to those that aren't," the other goblin replied, bringing up that brown-blooded contact that he'd been taking every opportunity to remind him to find a position for. "While such a thing might strike us as odd, when applied systemically one can see both why humans treat other humans better than they do non-humans but also why they treat each other so poorly over superficial differences."

Immediately Barchoke's dislike of Marsh and the goblin attitude against Brownbloods came to mind. Just how much of the human mindset had become a part of theirs over the centuries? He didn't dislike Marsh just because he was human, did he? No, that was silly; Gutripper might, but surely he wasn't that way. After all, Lichfield was human and he certainly liked him; the Potter boy was okay too. That girl might be alright but it was by far too early to tell with her; after all, how can you come to an evaluation about a person without seeing them multiple times?

Something ticked in his head with that. Did he dislike Marsh because he was human or because in all their dealings the man had never proven to be in any way likable? Or had he never tried to be likable? Certainly a degree of repetition and rapport had to be involved, which made him wonder if that was what happened with Brownbloods as well.

Were they scheming and untrustworthy because they were Brownbloods or were Brownbloods simply seen to be that way because most goblins already saw them that way and told themselves that the former was the reason why? The Halfwit was said to have been a Brownblood to one degree or another and he had certainly left a deep-seated reason to hate him, but had they been punishing everyone like him for a thousand years over what that one person did, or rather failed to do? He certainly didn't like this thought at all but supposed that the only thing to do to make it go away would be to actually put this Hugh Hobson to work and see what he was really like.

"Now that I think on it," Bankor said in a contemplative way, "that might be the reason behind something that Overseer Marsh said earlier."

"You mean with the hit wizards and their families?" he asked.

"Somewhat related to them, yes," the little minister agreed. "If the human affinity for other humans was called upon in such a general way, it could be that they could be turned against us in the way he described. I think we can all agree that the events of this week could have gone very differently if the shopkeepers hadn't voiced their concerns about the Ministry's actions, and in such a case I hesitate to think what we could say or do to alleviate those fears outside of giving the captives up, lest the Ministry use them to step up their pressure on us again."

"We do something nice for them, yes?" Alkrat interrupted happily. "The people with the shops."

"Why would we do something like that?" Barchoke asked in return.

"For them to like us," the odd goblin answered with a grin. "We be the happy bank you business like."

Looking over to Bankor he asked, "Did any of that make sense to you?"

"Perhaps," the other goblin said with a curiously thoughtful look on his face. "Our dealings with humans have historically been centered on the Ministry of Magic itself," he began to lecture. "Rarely, if ever, have we concerned ourselves with our image with the general public – the latest weekend issue of the _Prophet_ notwithstanding that is – so establishing some sort of rapport with the shops themselves may lead them to think of us positively."

"Oh, yes-yes-yes," the happy little Alkrat said as if it'd all been agreed. "I get them dates. You buy dates here, yes? Or maybe fruits? I get them fruits. They like fruits."

"And how about we say, 'They're not dead yet'? That'd work, wouldn't it?" Slaggran added as if he were actually helping before looking at them uncertainly. "Wait, they're not dead, are they?"

"Of course the captives aren't dead," Fillast replied for him with a look that was more than a little perturbed at the question. "Supervisor Braglast and I are keeping them well supplied, now that we know what they eat."

Coming so soon after Alkrat's fruity concern, something in that caught Barchoke's attention.

"You didn't try feeding them cats, did you?" he asked.

"You said to treat them as well as we would the guards," the building's director reminded him, "so we started them out on dogs, thinking that we could improve the meals to cats if they remained compliant, or snakes if they failed to do so."

"Oh no," he said with a shake of his head, remembering the frizzy-haired girl's umbrage just at the thought of them doing the same themselves.

"This is problem?" Alkrat asked. "Many places eat dog. Very tasty."

"Not here they don't," Slaggran wheezed in to inform them.

"We know that now," Fillast replied defensively. "Since then we've been providing them through the tunnels with a muggle supply of pig."

"Oh, I love pig! You should try them on pizza too, it's delicious, and there's also a muggle pastry place just down the–"

"This pizza's the what now?" Alkrat interrupted to ask as Barchoke felt the meeting careening away from him.

"It's a circle of toasted bread cut into wedges," Slaggran explained more animatedly than he'd ever seen him be. "There's also sauce, cheese, oily meats – We'll order you one next time they go out for pig."

"Surely there are better uses for our trusted human employees than to get you muggle food," Barchoke said grumpily.

"Well they're doing it too," Slaggran said defensively pointing at Fillast.

"You didn't say any of this to Marsh, did you?" he asked the table in general.

"There was no reason to," Fillast said with a perturbed look at the pudgy overseer.

"Good, let's keep that little embarrassment to ourselves or the _Prophet_ really might turn on us," Barchoke said before returning to the previous topic. "Regardless of what we say about the captives' conditions, saying it like that would likely be taken as a threat."

"It certainly wouldn't be taken in the reassuring manner in which it was meant," Bankor agreed with a nod to Slaggran before turning back to him. "Perhaps now I should tell you that Deputy Inspector General Delacour did mention them today though."

"Did he?" he asked curiously, wondering just how much of what Marsh said could be brewing under the surface. "How so?"

"He said that he was sure that, 'a constructive settlement with the Ministry' concerning them 'was in everyone's best interest so that we may all work together on more important things,'" Bankor recited for him. "I informed him that, 'our stance has not changed and until the Ministry proves able to live up to their agreements, that no settlement can be reached.'"

"Wait – that wasn't our stance," Barchoke said, noting the complete lack of any demand for the true criminals behind the events.

"And no doubt he knew it," the other goblin said placatingly for potentially overstepping himself. "The core part of our demands remains the same: Ministry acknowledgement of our rights to the Isle of Gringotts. Everything else is… implied… to be potentially negotiable. I'd have to say that it's become increasingly clear that the Ministry will never trade one wizard's life for another; not at a rate of two for five, or even one for five if it really came down to it, so I thought I'd give that more muted statement before raising the issue here of slightly moderating our demands."

He had to give him that. The demands had been purposely steep, yet at the same time simple, in order to get everyone on board with the scheme – especially Gutripper – and how better to do that than to demand that Dolores Umbridge be handed over to them? How any human could favor having her out there with them over the five hit wizards in their custody he'd never know but he supposed that she might have equally repulsive friends somewhere.

Keeping someone as high up in the Ministry out of their hands seemed the human thing to do now that Bankor had explained how they work, so to get them to negotiate on the rest they'd have to take that off the table. The trainee they had said fired the curse was nothing, a pawn, and rightfully disregarded to get something bigger but when you looked at it, they didn't know who the second person they wanted even was. 'The one responsible for the attack on the bank' could apply to anyone and surely the Minister wasn't going to hand himself over to them if he'd been the one to order that attack. Perhaps they should consider changing what they were after a bit.

"What about the I.C.W.?" he asked instead. "What was their agreement all about?"

"I don't think that it's too much to say that it's very good news for us," Bankor said as if that wouldn't single-handedly demolish any agreement the Ministry had made that effected them. "The civil case that you're overseeing against Dumbledore by the Potter family has been given priority and it's only after the legal issues are all resolved here in England that he'll be given over to the I.C.W. to face the international charges.

"There also seems to be an opening there for a summary judgement on your subsequent fraud case at that time as well, provided that the civil case goes well, which the Deputy Inspector General seemed willing to allow," the goblin continued. "It seems that the main sticking point in their negotiations, once any Ministry issues with us were removed from the discussion, was their gaining access to Dumbledore and Hogwarts in order to continue their investigation now that there are no further areas on the Isle of Gringotts to search."

"So they've confirmed that the Stone is nowhere on the Isle?" Fillast interrupted to ask. "Last I heard only the tower had been checked."

"The tower itself has been extensively checked with every means available," Bankor agreed. "Unfortunately, the Stone was nowhere in evidence and very little sign was seen that anyone formerly of the compound ever ventured far from it. The last few days has since seen the Isle defoliated and a systematic search done, although with similar results."

"So the Stone really is gone," Barchoke said as he clinched his fists on the table, though in truth he didn't know precisely how he felt about it. As bad as the Flamel Agreement had been for the goblin people it had at least provided them with some sense of unity, a kind of identity beyond that of mere bankers. Even without that king they had remained the impenetrable Gringotts, the most feared and respected bank in the world, and the only one to be trusted to house the Stone that could bring down the world – and now, for a second time in their history, that identity was gone.

"We may still find something in the records or personnel of Confidential Affairs–," Fillast tried to add before he overrode him.

"–If we haven't found anything in a week then putting everyone in Confidential to the question isn't likely to uncover anything new," he snapped before feeling like he shouldn't have. Things would have been so much easier if Lognot hadn't been stupid and gotten himself killed. What was a little torture if you were innocent? It was better than death, that's for sure.

"By all means, let's continue the investigation," Barchoke said in a more normal tone, "but we have to acknowledge the fact that however it was stolen, that it's out of our hands now. Since the I.C.W. seems keen to take the lead role in pursuing the Stone, I say we silently let them do it. We do our work, report our findings to them, and let them decide who they want to question and where they want to look next; that way it's their responsibility and their failure if the Stone is never recovered. What we should concentrate on is the gold itself."

"Quite the diplomatic thing to do," Bankor said appreciatively. "I suppose that would go for Overseer Marsh as well, assuming that he's not soon out of a job?"

"With-with-with him being gone," excitable Alkrat interjected, "does this be meaning that we get bigger offices?"

"What?" he asked, confused as to why that would be happening.

"Gutting the Hogwarts Accounting Department as you suggested would leave a sizable section of the building unoccupied," Fillast informed him in his role of overseeing the building itself. "Most of the second floor is given over for their use since humans dislike being below ground for any extended period of time. Financial Managers are always complaining about the cramped conditions of their hallway; we could reallocate the empty space for their use and expand both the number of managers and the comfort of our clients."

"Let's do that," Slaggran said, his pudgy finger pointing at Fillast in approval.

"Ah! But-but-but the record keeping we be wanting!" Alkrat added. "They be needing space."

"There are ways around that," Fillast said, now in full planning mode. "Once the managers have been moved we can put that new record keeping department in that back hallway and use the wizards to give them all the space they need. Since Flamel is no longer an issue going forward there's the fate of Confidential and their offices to consider as well; who do you foresee getting control of the Goblin Regency's Internal Marketplace?" the orderly goblin asked Barchoke.

"You can take it for all I care," he offhandedly replied causing the other goblin's face to shift directly into thinking about how he could make that work. "I wasn't serious about cutting that department," Barchoke explained, "I just wanted to threaten Marsh back onto our side and to make sure the Ministry didn't do any of the things he said it would. Am I the only one who sees the Ministry pulling his strings?" he asked incredulously.

Bankor, Slaggran, and Alkrat all spared each other curious glances as Fillast at least had the good sense to note how that put a different perspective on what the man had said. Something about the unruffled look that Braglast gave him made him think that he'd seen what Marsh had been up to too.

"Next time say something," he snapped at the silent goblin though his obvious frustration at the situation only made the bothersome goblin get a slight turn to the lips in what might pass for a smile.

"That means I can't get Marsh's office," Slaggran moaned pitifully to himself. "I don't like mine; the windows keep getting pelted with owl droppings."

"They should be charmed to prevent them from needing cleaned," Fillast remarked.

"Yeah, but that doesn't stop it from splattering all over the place," the pudgy ex-teller wheezed as Barchoke put his head in his hands and contemplated throwing the bank's doors open wide and inviting the Ministry to put them all out of their misery. "It just means they slough off after a while, but no amount of tapping from the inside makes that go any faster."

"Incorporating the G.R.I.M. into Gringotts Operations would lead to the eventual closure of Confidential," the conversation continued in the distance and Barchoke was glad that Marsh wasn't here to see how truly intimidating the goblin people were. "That would put Overseer Lognot's old office up for reassignment, though at the moment the I.C.W. seems to have commandeered it for their purposes as long as they're here."

"I don't like that office; its window faces a wall."

"Are we being done?" Alkrat asked no one in particular.

"Your framing of the issues earlier as 'the affairs of the Goblin Nation' raises some interesting issues of its own," Overseer Bankor said, prompting him to stop hiding in his head in his hands.

"Is that just code for Marsh to butt out?" Slaggran asked curiously though Barchoke only spared him a glance. He did note that ever-silent Braglast had disappeared when he wasn't looking though.

"Oh, we not done," Alkrat said with a happy grin. "I gave Bill the long lunch. No hurries."

"What do you mean?" Barchoke asked Bankor instead.

"You know he could get more things done if you just let him work on one thing at a time, right?" Slaggran told Alkrat as another round of fragmented conversations started to seem increasingly likely.

"Oh, he good," the foreign goblin said glowingly. "Very talented. No problem."

"While all of our intentions thus far have been, in terms of business," the careful little minister explained to those of them who were interested enough to listen. "–To ensure a negotiated maximum on the return on our investment, in relation to the Isle of Gringotts, an argument can be made that the acts themselves thus far have gone far beyond those of mere bankers and approached the level of a governmental structure pursuing matters of state."

"Overseers have always had a degree of autocracy and quasi-governmental power with the goblin people," Fillast noted.

"Ever since the time of Goblin-King Swinedine, yes, that is true," Bankor equivocated in a lecturing tone. "Looking at our history, with the most recent developments in mind, one can clearly see how his… rather quick departure–"

"–Didn't they kill a Swinedine for something?" the pudgy goblin across the way wheezed. "What?" Slaggran asked when all eyes turned to him. "I never liked reading."

"For all your fondness for eating pig, your parents never told you about Swinedine the Swindled?" Fillast asked disbelievingly.

"Oh, that was him? I thought that might've been somebody else," Slaggran said slowly slumping in his seat.

"How many other Swinedines do you think there's been?"

"I don't know everybody," the slumping sack of suet muttered to himself.

"Can we get back on topic?" Barchoke asked.

"Yes," Fillast agreed before summing the story up, "a lousy king died for mismanagement and his Overseers took power. How is anything we're doing different than what's happened since then?"

"Oh, it isn't," Bankor agreed, though why he'd bother bringing this up was still beyond him. "But it does raise some issues nonetheless. The most pertinent perhaps is that these actions are being taken in the absence of an officially designated leader," he said with a gesture to the large chair that Grand Overseer Largrot had last held. "Secondly, and perhaps most importantly in light of certain suspicions, is that continuing in this mold could lead someone, like Overseer Marsh, to conceivably gain enough support to allow the Ministry to gain control over us without our ever realizing it."

Slaggran sat up as Barchoke's green blood ran cold and he was very glad to be sitting down. He knew that goblins had a tendency to follow a strong leader, whoever that leader happened to be at the time, but he'd never thought that it might one day be someone like Marsh – not under any circumstances. Just how much had he risked today just to make the man have to wait on him? Perhaps there was an even greater need for change within Gringotts than he'd thought.

"We've got to fix this," he agreed numbly. _'I'd been so worried about the dangers of taking that chair that I never thought about what the dangers might be of not taking_ it,' he thought to himself._ 'But how do I take it without picking up all the potentially lethal responsibility? And that's on top of Gutripper killing me on general principle if I did it without getting his support first. Good Gotts, what a horrible day to be a goblin!'_

"This is depending, of course, on whether Overseer Marsh is in fact working on the Ministry's behalf rather than our own or whether an attack is indeed in the future," the little doomsayer went on to beat around the bush, "but the consequences of those become rather difficult to predict as they are out of our control. If we had agreed with him about releasing the Ministry's hit wizards today then tomorrow it could have been about the Isle of Gringotts, any of the underlying treaties between our peoples, or even simple changes to common workplace practices."

"Marsh can't be trusted with any of them," Barchoke said, adding his two knuts worth while trying to come up with a way out of this mess.

"Gutripper's never trusted him, I know that," Fillast said shrewdly, untraditionally omitting the other goblin's title in public. "With him gone the man probably thought it was a good opportunity to put himself forward. I always thought that he wanted the top job for himself," he said echoing some of Barchoke's own thoughts.

"Well can't we just have him kill him?" Slaggran asked nebulously.

"Oh no-no," Alkrat answered with his hands raised. "That be messy; red goes everywhere. Feed to dragons," he added with a joking smile. "They eat."

"As much as I'd really enjoy seeing that, that's not going to be a possibility," Barchoke said to take control of the meeting again. "Gutripper's never liked him because he's human; I've never liked him because he's an arrogant little–," he halted grudgingly, disbelieving that he was going to have to cover for Marsh like this.

"And doubtlessly the Ministry wouldn't take well to his disappearance at all," Bankor added when he halted. "Whether they were influencing him or not."

"Regardless," he continued, "We've never had to like each other to do our jobs."

Slaggran nodded as he scratched his chin with a little fat finger before stopping and quickly darting his eyes around to the others uncertainly. The pudgy goblin was probably wondering if anyone liked him, though if he came around again with more of those cream-filled pastries it wouldn't hurt his opinion of him in the least. For all his grousing about proper use of human employees, those things were good. Barchoke could see why he'd become fat in the first place.

"But the matter remains that as long as anyone without the most ardent loyalty to the goblin people retains a position with as much power as an Overseer," Bankor said reiterating his case before the wordy goblin interrupted himself. "–And I presume that from your turnabout on the Hogwarts liquidation that there is yet insufficient evidence to call for an Inquiry against him?" the goblin asked of him.

"Nothing of any real substance," Barchoke answered in return. "Besides Vault 713 and his questionable motives here today, the only other oddity I've seen are some strange transfers to his department in that case I'm overseeing. The why of that has more to do with Dumbledore than with Marsh though, so calling an Inquiry against him for it would be the kind of infringement that none of us would support for any one of us."

Bankor nodded in understanding while Slaggran looked to be debating whether he should go to get some of those pastries right then.

"These have been a rather intense past several days," the little minister said in agreement, "and while a period of slightly elevated scrutiny of those who do not share the same cultural history may be an understandable impulse in these situations, any such actions against them would only serve to divide rather than unify. It may well be that Marsh was indeed acting on what he thinks is the bank's best interests, though admittedly in a uniquely human way."

Barchoke certainly had to agree with him on that too. In human eyes Gringotts was a bank, a building and nothing more, and in many respects that's all it was. That bank in goblin eyes though was a building built on many levels: the little old witch who comes to them to withdraw funds so that she can eat that day, the overworked wizard who comes to them to pay their rent, the shopkeeper who deposits their daily revenue and speaks to them about finding new investors, the other industries that supply the raw goods to the shopkeepers who come to them about pursuing other markets for what they make, and even the overly affluent who've forgotten what real work was and instead makes their money by having them putting their money to work on their behalf.

If Marsh truly was as just some simple human worker then his actions meant that the thought that goblins comprised some separate part of the world on their own was all but gone in the wizarding mind and they might as well be house-elves. In truth it was almost gone in the goblin mind too except when it came to the larger issues that affected all goblins, then what precisely the bank was, what it represented… morphed – not to encompass the various levels of the wizarding world it serviced – but to symbolize the entirety of the goblin society that created it and depends on it to survive.

Gringotts was a bank, a building, as much as the rock you stub your toe on was but the tip of a mountain that rests unseen beneath the soil. But to threaten this tip though is to threaten to destroy the entire mountain below; to shatter it and bury it forever. And if there was one thing he was glad the humans had remained ignorant of was just how much they depended on that bank or it would have been crushed long ago.

The tunnels connecting them to secret outlets in the muggle world were their last line of defense, their only way to sustain themselves in a siege like this by taking in resources through less-than-obvious ways. At first they'd all seen the Isle of Gringotts as something along those lines; a new source of revenue that was theirs for the taking, but as the week went on what it was had started to shift in his mind. The Isle wasn't some subsidiary outlet into the wider world like the tunnels at all, it was something else entirely; it was a brand new foundation on which to build something uniquely their own.

"So while our concerns about him may indeed be more temporary in nature," Bankor continued. "As long as the aforementioned quasi-governmental powers remain undefined and in the hands of… what I hesitate to call 'an amorphously structured group of select individuals with no titular head,'" the goblin worry wart droned on with a placating grin, "the danger of take over remains to perhaps express itself again at some later date."

"So what would you suggest?" he asked the slumber-inducing talker in the hopes that the obvious solution would garner more support when not coming from himself.

"What I propose is a vote to strip all governmental powers from the Overseers and imbue them into a single individual who would then take on the chief administrative and governmental authority for the Goblin Nation," the other goblin told the dumbfounded audience.

That was nowhere near what he'd expected him to say.

"You want a _king?"_ Barchoke asked disbelievingly as a slight movement announced Braglast coming back to his seat from beneath the table.

"There is no doubt that conversing with the I.C.W. and dealing with the Ministry would best be done with a louder, more unified voice that spoke for every goblin in the country, or from one who spoke on that person's behalf," Bankor said in response. "And since the Stone and the creation of the Flamel Agreement ended not only King Swinedine's life but changed the entire core of what the Goblin Nation was, rather than let problems inherent in the current system continue unchecked, how better to proceed than to return to what we were?"

A glint of metal darted his eyes back to Braglast but it wasn't steel he showed, this time it was crown of silver and gold that jangled its way onto the cold black table.

"NO!" Barchoke cried, holding up his hands in front of him to ward it off though what he really wanted to yell was, 'GOOD GOTTS, WHERE'D YOU GET THAT?!' As he stared transfixed at that dangerous circle of gems and precious metals like it was a shadow snake from Below sent to kill him, he knew that he had to put a stop to this now or there'd be no force on the planet that could stop Gutripper from ripping his guts out. Why had he ever wanted Braglast to be clear about what he wanted? Silence was better than gold, or at least it was safer.

"No," he said again with a little bit less panic the second time around. "No kings. What we have now may have its problems but that's no reason to go running back to kings unless we want another Swindine on our hands. It puts too much power in one goblin's hands," he said before adding to himself, _'And too much dangerous responsibility put on their heads._'

"Overseers working together like this may have its flaws," he continued a bit more quickly than usual, "but you can't deny that it's worked. We've made more progress with the Ministry, the I.C.W., and the general public in the last week alone than we have in the last hundred years, and we did it by working together to make each other's ideas better."

"But how is that supposed to work when we're talking about a government?" Slaggran asked.

"A government official's duty is to work in concert with their fellow officials to pursue a course of action they believe will be in the best interest of their people," Bankor told the other Overseer in response. "And while I cannot say that I've ever seen it actually work out the way that Overseer Barchoke described, I also cannot deny that it seems that we have, in fact, been working that way."

"Then if you see a problem in what we're doing then fix it," he said firmly before pointing at that ominous crown, "because that's going in the wrong direction."

The room was silent after that as Bankor looked to be thinking deeply about his concerns while Fillast looked at him with a shrewd uncomfortable look. Still, he'd rather have that look all day though than the unnerving blank stare that his brother Braglast was giving him. It was more out of nervousness than to pursue any particular plan that he broke the silence once again.

"If you think that we should strip the Overseers of this power then we can see about doing that," he said as he tried to work moisture back into his throat. "But if anyone is going to have it then the responsibility to use it wisely should be shared among an entire group of people."

"That would still open up precisely what those responsibilities were and how this group would go about doing–" Bankor seemed to say to himself before he interrupted him.

"–We can figure all that out later," Barchoke said really just wanting nothing more than to take a break from that room for a while before things get any worse.

"But who would be in this group?" Slaggran asked.

"We would be, obviously," Fillast quickly replied. "The six of us and Gutripper. I'm not going to trust anyone else with this and the point was to exclude Marsh."

"Well then," Bankor said rejoining the conversation from his brief think. "Presuming that this governing body would include us, and likewise engaged in voting behavior on the relevant issues, it would also need a leader," he said uncharacteristically quickly. "I nominate Barchoke."

"Barchoke!" Slaggran immediately seconded with a raised hand.

"Barchoke," Fillast agreed with a shrewd look and a nod while Braglast simply raised his hand, though technically that could've meant anything.

"Oh! You win!" Alkrat said happily as he gave a spurt of rapid fire applause before raising his hand as well.

"Wait, we never agreed for sure that we were going to do this and Gutripper isn't even here," Barchoke pointed out.

"You didn't, but we just did, apparently," Slaggran unhelpfully wheezed.

"Then you all get to explain it to him."

"Ah! It no worries," Alkrat said with a grin as he stood. "I go Flamel, tell to come. Then he vote for you too. I spend time making happy greet cards for the shops. Get fruits," he told Fillast as he headed for the door. "I need."

"Is he talking about fruit baskets?" Slaggran asked when the odd foreign goblin was gone.

"How do you make a basket out of them?" Fillast asked in return. "I can see it if we're talking about gourds but–"

"Well then," Bankor said in the same way he did before that he was really beginning to dislike. "I suppose the only thing that can be done right now would be for you to see to your predecessor."

Barchoke's head whipped back over to him quickly.

"Hang on," he said, deciding that he didn't like the new confident Bankor being his backer at all since all he did was drop boulders on his back when he wasn't looking. "I thought he was dead."

"Why would somebody kill him," Slaggran wheezed out in response, "unless they were the one taking his place?"

Barchoke changed his mind; he didn't want to leave.

.o0O0o.

He usually liked dealing with foreign types because it gave a much wider view of the world, of magic, and all the complexities and eccentricities of both but wherever Gringotts had managed to dig up Overseer Alkrat, Bill hoped that they left the rest of them right where they were. That goblin was tireless, energetic about everything, and most of the time completely incomprehensible. That hadn't stopped him from running him ragged in the last week though.

_'Oh! Beel! Come-come-come be doing this. Oh! Beel! Go-go-go be doing that,_' his boss's high voice echoed in his ears._ 'Oh! Beel! Do be doing this-thing-that's-the-opposite-of-what-I-told-you-to-do-an-hour-ago!'_ he grumped to himself as he sat at the dining room table.

Sitting still and having a moment to yourself was a greatly underestimated thing, Bill decided. It was especially nice to do it in the cool comfort of your old home with a decent meal, though he wouldn't have turned down an old musty tomb if he could guarantee that Overseer Alkrat wouldn't be able to find him in it. He'd always heard that the way to a promotion was to attract the attention of 'the goblins upstairs' but he hadn't thought that it'd end up like this. The pay was a good deal better now but he'd be willing to take an even steeper pay cut if it meant getting his old life back.

Between redoubling the island's wards, trying to read all the books in Flamel's library – or even one of them since very little of it made sense, trying to piece together the wardstone, to indexing what was in the laboratory, hunting around for secret nooks and crannies, demolishing a forest, and trying to find a way to create some kind of discombobulation field to affect everyone on the island so they didn't know where in the world it was when they weren't there and yet have it not affect the dragons – Bill didn't know what he'd be doing from one instant to the next and he'd given up trying to predict.

In fact, in the off chance that he actually finished the latest thing he'd been told to do, he didn't even know if he was expected to go back to finish what he'd been told to do before, and asking Alkrat only gave him yet another new thing to do. He'd been so busy that he didn't know if he was even still a part of the competing research teams they'd been told would be set up to figure out a quicker way to test for phony gold or not – and that was the reason he'd been hauled back to the country in the first place!

After explaining the complications to Harry last week, the closest he'd gotten to that subject again was sitting back at this same table every once in a while. He hadn't even had the time to look at that Séance book that Hermione girl had let him have, though how chemi-something was supposed to be different than alchemy when the names were so close together he didn't have a clue. When magical theory seemed to fail though you had to start somewhere, even if that meant looking at some weird muggle religious ritual that involved chanting, assuming he remembered his Muggle Studies correctly.

"Thank you, Dobby," Bill said wearily as Harry's house-elf wafted the remains of an early midday meal away from him.

"You're very welcome, sir," the elf smiled before a snap cleared the plate and a wave sent it flying to the sink to be washed.

Left alone with him as any evidence that the kitchen had even been used recently was quickly removed and the elf himself had disappeared, he couldn't deny just how quickly all the work around the Burrow got done now that Dobby was here. True, with so many of them in the house there were always new messes being made but it did make him wonder how things were going to be like when they were gone. His mum had always wanted one when they were younger but what was she going to do now if Dobby stuck around to take care of the house?

As if to answer his question Bill heard someone coming down the stairs. She was roughly the same shape as his mother, and was dressed in what she'd always called 'her best blue dress,' but her Weasley red hair was fixed up in a way he'd never seen it before so this woman bore little resemblance to the one he called his mother. There was something weird about her face too, and why was she carrying a handbag?

"Mum?" he asked disbelievingly as he stood, his words stopping the woman in her tracks.

"Oh! Bill, you startled me," his mother's voice said as her hand flew to her chest in alarm. "I didn't know you'd be here," she said as he started to pick out familiar bits and pieces of her facial features under–

_'Wait, is she wearing makeup?'_

"Here, you sit down and let me make you something," his mother said as she bustled her way to the kitchen.

"Thanks, mum, but I've already eaten. Are you going somewhere?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, well – I thought I might step out for a bit," his mother said evasively while not meeting his eye. "You know, run errands and the like."

"Dressed like that?" Bill asked not really knowing what to make of all this.

"A girl has a right to dress up and feel pretty if she wants to," she fussed at him.

Bill held up his hands and silently admitted defeat, hoping to drop the issue. If his mother wanted to be pretty, let her be pretty; it really didn't matter to him. He certainly didn't want to fill his few good hours of the day picking at this and it wasn't like Ginny was going to run off and do the same when she saw her, not anymore that is.

The Ginny he'd seen a couple weeks ago might've done it – had done it, actually – just to welcome Harry here if his guess was right, but she'd gone through quite a change since then. Instead of trying to be 'the proper little lady' the girl seemed intent on becoming one of the guys. So if anything, seeing their mother like that might just turn her around to go back outside to play around some more just so that she can come back in again looking even more roughed up than usual.

His mother had called it 'trying on hats,' as if looking around for what kind of person you truly wanted to be was nothing more complicated than that. Either way, dirty, sweaty, and occasionally scraped Ginny did seem better off being what she was this week. Who she'd decide to be next week he didn't know but hoped whoever she eventually became that she'd be a Ginny she wanted to be.

"It's not like you couldn't use a bit of prettying up yourself," his mother said coming over to get a good look at him. "You're looking peaky," she said suddenly sounding concerned and turning his head left and right. "Are you coming down with something? When was the last time you slept? You shouldn't let those goblins overwork you like that. You're a growing boy; it's not good for you."

Bill wanted to fight back against the onslaught of mothering but when he opened his mouth all he could do was yawn.

"It's just a busy time right now, that's all. I'm sure it'll settle down eventually," he said when he could. "Might take a quick nap before I go back though," Bill added before catching what he said.

_'Merlin, I'm becoming an old man,_' he thought as he ran a hand across his face. _'Growing up sucks._'

"Well, since you've eaten, you go on up," his mother said as she ushered him towards the stairs. "I've got some time before I – run errands – I'll make sure everything's quiet for you," she finished quickly.

"Are you sure?" Bill asked still trying to puzzle out what was going on with the woman.

A gout of green flame from the fireplace cut off any answer, especially since it didn't come with any accompanying chime from the Weasley clock. They couldn't see who it was but whoever it was wasn't family, and neither did they call out in greeting before another green flare roared out as well. Something about this didn't sit right with him but while his hand edged down to the pocket of his robes for his wand his mother had charged off to take control of her household.

Coming around into the kitchen area, Bill saw the last two people he'd ever thought he'd see standing next to each other. Things being as they were, he was at a complete loss as to what to say.

"Mr. Lichfield, I didn't know you'd be coming today," his mother said kindly in welcome.

"The boy didn't tell you that we'd be by?" the grizzled old litigator asked in reply while he brushed the ash off his robes and took in her dress.

"Er – No, should he have?" she asked with a glance as the stern-faced, short-haired woman beside him couched a monocle on one eye.

"Molly Weasley," the man said instead, "this is Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's here to talk to Harry about his case."

Suddenly Bill felt the tension in the room jump significantly with that as everything in the world seemed to come crashing together in that one room. Madam Bones was from the Ministry – in many ways she _was_ the Ministry – insofar as their commitment to law and order went – while he and Lichfield worked for Gringotts. The old man though had the 'old bailiff for the Potter family' mantle to hide behind but Bill himself had no such cover.

_'How much does the Ministry know about people?'_ he wondered nervously.

"A pleasure," his mother said as if by rote before turning quickly to face him. "Why don't you go upstairs for that nap now, dear? I can make our guests at home," his mother excused him with a shooing gesture before moving over to Lichfield. "The kids are outside playing Quidditch, I don't suppose I could trouble you with it while I make Ms. Bones here some tea?

"I knew you looked familiar," Bill heard his mother say kindly as he slipped out of the room unnoticed as Lichfield did the same in the other direction. "I must've seen your face a time or two in the _Prophet_. No doubt you know my Arthur, he works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office – Now what kind of tea did you want, dear?"

He only started breathing again on the second landing, and it wasn't until he got into his room that he started to relax at all. One thing was sure, with that woman downstairs the last thing he was doing was going to sleep or he might just wake up in Azkaban for going against the government. Thinking that whatever the muggles did in their meditations might at least take his mind off the danger that lurked right below him, Bill picked up that Séance book and started to read.

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** There's been something I've been avoiding and dismissing ever since Dumbledore first popped up in the story. To be honest, it seemed completely mad to me that anyone would think that his character was like this but when we first got to see things from his point of view several reviewers commented that he came off like a religious extremist.

_'No, no, that's not it,_' I would always say to myself. _'His is a highly embellished philosophical view on life more than anything else, and this Greater Good he attributes things to is more along the lines of Plato's Form of the Good that shines like the sun on all the lesser Forms. My readers are intelligent though so once I have the opportunity to more adequately describe where his ideas come from in the story they'll be able to see what I'm doing._'

After all, as he's described in the books Dumbledore really is the epitome of the classical Greek philosopher, so if I was going to take his contemplative, non-violent, laissez-faire, and always giving people a second chance mentality to its logical conclusion then how better to do that than with a benevolent form of the Greater Good that's put into a philosophical mold? To be sure, the philosophical details were always somewhat nebulous in my mind but with the organic nature of the story I was sure that it'd fill itself out in time.

As I had more chances to crawl into his head and allow him to describe how he sees the Greater Good working in the world around him, and how everything was connected to it, what Dumbledore was talking about seemed to become much more synonymous with 'the plot the writer seems to be writing at this point in time' rather than anything else and this other philosophical explanation started to become increasingly untenable. Eventually I had to conclude that many you were right and I'd been just as blind as Dumbledore. I had created a religion with only one follower and made myself a god within it.

I don't know if that's going to affect anything but what do you say to something like that? Oops? Oh! I know:

Thanks for reading. ;)


	31. The Harsh Light of Day

.o0O0o.

If there was one thing guaranteed to spell doom and gloom for the rest of the summer, a fire-breathing dragon burning down Diagon Alley and throwing the entire wizarding world into a panic – on top of what'd already been caused by a stone small enough to fit into the palm of your hand – really should have been it. And while it had caused the adults to go mad for a while when it happened, strangely enough, in the week that followed it seemed as though things had gotten even better at the Burrow than they were before.

Harry didn't know if it was the addition of Hermione being there most days or not but it was like that rock hard steadiness that she brought had somehow melted off her and blended into the ground beneath the Burrow. It wasn't as if she had changed at all, Hermione was still Hermione, but it was as if just her being around had made everything else seem that much… _more_. It was like that portable little island of calm had ballooned outward and now everything at the Burrow was resting happily on top of it.

Even all the big stuff going on in the rest of the country didn't seem to be able to touch them there; well, not really. _The Daily Prophet_ still arrived every morning carrying news of what happened the day before and Bill and Mr. Weasley still went to their jobs every day and brought back tidbits of what they learned, though Bill was hard to catch since he seemed to be working even more than his dad was and more tight-lipped about what he was doing even when you caught him. That all seemed to take place in some far off somewhere else though so he doubted that anything could ruffle the Burrow that didn't come from the Burrow itself.

The closest thing that'd come to disturbing that newfound sense of calm was when rumors of his case against Dumbledore had made it into the _Prophet_ yesterday. They'd seemed to think it was all about those Boy Who Lived books though and he didn't know whether he'd prefer the truth coming out about it or not. Luckily Hermione was soon on hand to distract him with studying and to show him what the real danger was in the situation: having a herd of first years following him around while calling him Doctor Jones and asking him to sign their fedoras.

Ron had noticed a change too, though he called the differences guy days and girl days. Guy days were the days they spent doing what they'd always done: playing Quidditch, chess, and hanging out with Fred and George; girl days had almost none of that because those days were Hermione days. Harry wasn't sure what Ron did on those days but he spent them talking with Hermione, studying with Hermione, or explaining how all the muggle things were supposed to work to Mr. Weasley, who seemed to make a special point of getting home early those days so he can "do research," though it pretty much boiled down to listening to Hermione be Hermione.

After asking him on several occasions, Ron had finally joined them when they were studying yesterday, so maybe he'd start calling them something else. It was kind of silly to call them 'girl days' anyway since Ginny and Luna were there with them on the 'guy days' but nowhere to be seen on the 'girl days,' though Harry still tried to keep his distance with Ginny even then. He'd been right about Ron not having touched his homework though, but as amusing as it was to watch Hermione get onto him about his studying, watching her check what Ron had done that day only to hand it back with a "you'll never get an A with that" was even better. So much for getting his homework done without having to try.

It looked as though the Quidditch matches were starting to become grudge matches too, at least where Ron and Ginny were concerned. Unlike what he had claimed before, Ginny's success had nothing to do with beginner's luck. She was actually pretty good, and had been sneaking out to fly for years without everyone knowing, if what she yelled at Ron one day was true.

But it wasn't just that she was good that was making things rather explosive between the two, for some reason Ron had suddenly gotten rather bad at Keeping. Whenever he went for a save he seemed to dive to one side way before he had to be there and then have to scramble back the other way to try to stop the Quaffle. George's comment that he had gotten too used to having a crummy broom didn't help, though it could've been Fred's jest that they give the broom to Ginny instead that really soured his mood.

To lighten things up, or at least give them something else to complain about besides each other, Luna had started throwing apples at them when they played. After all, she said, it wasn't a real game if you didn't have bludgers hitting you. That had slowed the game down a bit so Ron had more of a chance, plus it gave whoever wasn't playing that game something to do.

That was where he was when Lichfield found him.

"Sorry," Harry called out to Fred as the boy wiped bits of rotten apple off his face. "Bludger!"

"You having fun?" the gnarled wizard asked as Luna skipped off to find more apples. "If you really wanted to make a mess you could always use eggs," Lichfield said with a smirk.

"But then we wouldn't have anything to eat tomorrow," he pointed out.

"You'd have the apples, unless you've already used them all," the older man said gesturing to the ground around them. "Judging from all the collateral damage you've caused to these unfortunate fruit, I'd say that's a fair bet."

"I wasn't the only one," he said defensively.

"Wouldn't matter if you were," Lichfield said carelessly. "The trees were here before the Weasleys, so the apples are yours anyway."

"Oh," Harry said flattening his hair, still uncomfortable with the fact that he owned his best friend's home.

"Damn, now I want apple bread," the old litigator said to himself.

With a rustle of leaves Harry saw several apples tear themselves off their limbs and soar through the air to meet up at the same spot. That spot happened to be in Mipsy's arms and she gave them a big excited grin before disappearing with them. It was kind of odd to see her without Hermione in tow but he still had to wait more than a week to be able to see his girlfriend two days in a row.

"Well, I know what I'm eating when I get home," Lichfield said with a smile. "I'm taking those as part of my salary."

"Help yourself," he said with a shrug.

"Hey Harry!" Ron called from behind him and above. "Game's over and you're up. You playing?"

He turned around just in time to see an apple arc out of nowhere to hit his friend in the back of his head.

"Oi! We're not playing again yet."

"Bludger!" Luna's voice called from somewhere.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to borrow him for a bit," Lichfield answered for him, making him wonder why the man was here in the first place.

"What's going on?" Harry asked once they were on their way back to the Burrow.

"You remember what I said about how the head of the D.M.L.E. will want to talk to you about your case?" his litigator asked in reply.

"Um – vaguely," he lied. "Why?"

"Because the head of the D.M.L.E. is here to talk to you about your case," Lichfield said with a look.

"Wait – now?" he asked, wondering just how stable a place the Burrow had actually become.

"No need to worry," Lichfield said seeming to push aside his silent concerns. "Unlike what you're used to with us, the purpose of this meeting should be fairly straight-forward."

"I've definitely heard that before," Harry replied.

"Yeah, well, we don't have a goblin running the meeting and she's not here to talk to me," the old man countered with a grin. "It's pretty much just to make sure that everything's on the up and up, that this is what you want, and it's in your best interests."

"That doesn't sound so bad," he said to himself trying to get the gigantic block of ice that'd settled in his stomach to disappear.

"Speaking of best interests though," Lichfield said in a lower voice. "It might be best not to mention what happened at the end of your last school year unless she brings it up."

"Last time someone mentioned it we had our brains sucked out," he reminded him. Ron might've liked it but Harry wasn't looking forward to repeating it anytime soon.

"No, not that bit," the old man clarified, "the bit about the man with the ridiculous turban having an evil dead wizard growing out of the back of his head."

Voldemort. Somehow just having someone mention him made that block of ice in his stomach shatter, melt, and start to boil. It settled down quickly though when he imagined what kind of chaos having everyone learning that he really was still alive and lurking out there somewhere would cause. The Stone had been bad enough and everyone treated Voldemort like the bogeyman already.

"One panic-inducing emergency at a time, right?" Harry asked, sending the man's own words from before back to him.

"That's the hope," Lichfield agreed with a nod. "I passed the information on to someone I trust almost as soon as I got it so that they could start working on it. They work for the Ministry so the lady inside may be aware of it already, but with something as sensitive as this you can't be too sure. If she knows then she'd know that you know, but she may not mention it even then. If she doesn't know, mentioning it may step on his investigation and who knows what could happen."

"So keep my mouth shut or the world might explode again," he agreed.

"I knew you'd get it," Lichfield grinned. "You just had to be burned before you learned not to play with fire, didn't you?"

Instead of responding Harry pushed open the door to see a strange woman sitting at the table. She had red hair, a blue dress, and looked vaguely like–

"Mrs. Weasley?" he asked wondering why she was dressed up for a special occasion.

"And would you listen to that?" she said to the woman that he'd completely overlooked. "He's always so polite. I swear my boys could learn a thing or two from him."

Embarrassed, Harry flattened his mop of unruly hair, not knowing if Mrs. Weasley was helping things or hurting them. Was this one of those times when being seen as a mature adult rather than a kid was supposed to help? And how did being seen as polite work with that? The woman in question though didn't seem to notice as she was preoccupied scratching down notes on a parchment as steam rose from her teacup.

Lichfield gave him a poke to get him to move so the man could enter.

"Harry, dear, you have a visitor," Mrs. Weasley said as she stood to give him her seat and a reassuring smile before retreating to the living room, trailing a flowery scent behind her.

As he sat, not knowing if he was supposed to say something or not, the stern-looking woman finally looked up at him.

"Good afternoon, Mister Potter," the woman said her short-cropped gray hair, square jaw, and monocle making it seem as if she was trying to out McGonagall professor McGonagall. "There's no need to worry," she said a bit more friendly than before. "I'll try not to take up more of your time than I have to. I know how jealously students guard their summer breaks. My name's Amelia Bones, I trust you got my letter?"

"Er – no," he said before he thought of saying otherwise.

"No?" she asked, monocle threatening to fall from its perch and looking to Lichfield.

"He's had some difficulty with his mail in the past," the man said by way of explanation as he took a seat next to him. "But I'd thought we'd taken care of it."

"Has he now?" the woman asked looking back at him studiously. "How would you say that your fame has treated you? Have you been deluged well-wishes, Christmas cards, or fan mail for instance?"

"No," Harry said a bit more at ease from the sheer silliness of anyone sending him fan mail at all. "Except for my friends no one's ever sent me letters at all – except Hogwarts," he added quickly at the end.

"That's odd," the woman said as she drew her wand and waved it over his head. "I know for sure that you should have had at least one birthday card back when you were six."

Something about how the woman said that made his mind take a sharp left turn.

"You didn't know my parents too, did you?" he asked.

"I'm familiar with the story but I can't say that I ever met them myself," the woman said smoothly as she sat back and withdrew her wand. "They were good bit younger than I was. Why do you ask?"

"Since this whole thing started it seems that everyone's connected to my family somehow," Harry shrugged.

"I suppose that's to be expected, considering," the woman said as she made a note of something on the parchment. "The wizarding world is a rather small place, smaller than most people realize. Does the name Susan mean anything to you?"

"Er – no," he said at a loss and scrounging his memory for anything he could find. "Is it supposed to?"

"Not particularly," she glanced up with him this time with a bit of a smile. "When I was at Hogwarts I didn't notice anyone outside of my own house for years. My niece is one of your classmates; the card came from her," the woman remarked before she turned somber for a moment. "Her late father ran in the same circles as your parents during the war, so perhaps he knew them."

That was a particularly hard poke to the gut that he didn't know how to deal with. Fortunately, she just continued on without him having to do so.

"It appears that you have a Wandering Wizard's Ward on you, Mister Potter," she continued.

"A-a what?" Harry asked.

"It's a charm, more commonly called a Redirect, that most high Ministry officials use to prevent the public from being able to send them curses through the mail," Ms. Bones explained. "Though I'm told that some celebrities find it preferable to have all their fan mail waiting for them at one specific place and time rather than showing up whenever it wills or following them from country to country."

"But if this Redirect messes with my mail then how could my friends write to me this summer?" he asked wondering if Dobby had actually been doing him a favor by intercepting his redirected mail, though that didn't seem to make sense either somehow.

"There are various exceptions that can be applied to such a system," the woman explained. "It could allow only certain owls to go through, any owl from certain people, or people you know personally – though exceptions are usually made for official Ministry business."

"I'm willing to bet that if the letter had come from the Improper Use of Magic Office that he would have gotten it just fine," Lichfield said, finally choosing to add his opinion into the mix. "What other owls are twelve year olds likely to get from the Ministry? My concern is him getting control of it."

"That would be a simple enough job for the Ministry to do," Ms. Bones said as she made another series of notes. "The problem with that is that with Mister Potter being underage control of the Redirect would be the domain of his guardian and with that in dispute–"

"–I have to wait until the case is over to get it," Harry said reaching the obvious conclusion, though for a very different reason. "I don't want fan mail," he whined before turning to Lichfield. "Can we not get rid of it?"

Lichfield chuckled a bit.

"I suppose. If you've got a tenant with a problem though it'll make getting in touch with you rather difficult," the litigator explained. "I suppose you could always send the mail to someone else to take care of but–," he cut off when Harry looked at him expectantly. "–Oh no, I'm not doing it," the man groused.

"But you're my bailiff," he reminded the man.

"I'm your litigator. I was your grandfather's bailiff," Lichfield corrected him with a threatening poking finger and an amused look. "And your father's for a bit there – but that's neither here nor there," he gruffed with a wave. "–The point is there's a difference; this whole quasi-bailiff set up's temporary. Either way, I'm an old man and you're already running me ragged. We can set you up with an assistant and train them up, but I'm too old to be messing around with some prepubescent heartthrob's fan mail."

Harry chuckled at that, even while he wondered how much of that the man was actually being honest about. Lichfield might be an irascible old coot but no one knew more about what was going on than him, so he'd really be lost without him. Plus, it seemed like he'd somehow become a friend.

"There's also the issue of the publisher that could be a concern," Ms. Bones said adding another complication along with more notes. "Even if the Wizengamot rules in your favor, the publisher of those storybooks may take issue with losing the rights to... well, you. The Redirect may have been put in place to help separate the literary figure of 'Harry Potter' from the living, breathing one.

"Regardless," she said looking up from her notes again, "those are issues for later. What's important now is something else. How do feel about Mr. Lichfield coming back to serve in that 'quasi-bailiff' capacity at this time, Mister Potter?" Ms. Bones asked.

"Er – Besides him being perpetually grumpy and liable to wander off," Harry replied giving the old man a verbal poke in return, "I can't say that he doesn't get everything done. Plus I've learned more about my family from him than anywhere else."

"And do you enjoy living here?" she asked as she went back to scratching out more notes.

"Oh, yeah, the Weasleys are great," he said honestly, wishing that he could read things upside down so he'd know what the woman was writing. The last thing he needed was this woman thinking that he was lying.

"And who's idea was it for you to pay rent?" she asked looking up at him again.

Harry was trapped and had no idea what to say; and it was even worse because with the woman staring at him he couldn't even look at Lichfield for any kind of clue. When they were at the bank the man had said that they wanted the case to look like he was an adult and able to take care of himself, so did that mean that Lichfield had said that it was all his idea or did he say that he offered up the idea because it got what he wanted done done since that's what litigators do? And what had Mrs. Weasley said about it? She knew that Lichfield had been involved and he'd told her that it had been his litigator's idea in the first place.

"Well, Ron had invited me to stay," he said, trying to find a way to tell it so that it matched up to what anyone else could've possibly said about it. "But it didn't seem right to stay for nothing. And with me leaving the Dursleys behind, Lichfield said that it'd be best if I had somewhere that I could stay more permanently, and Ginny had needed money to go to school, so it all just kind of came together," he finished weakly as the woman made even more notes about him.

"And you acquired a house-elf?"

The image of Barchoke running down the hallway yelling "BREACH!" exploded in Harry's mind. He tried to push all those thoughts aside and concentrate on how happy Dobby was to be working here rather than the illegal stuff the elf did to get him here.

"I – felt bad springing all this on Mrs. Weasley," he said uncertainly, double and triple checking everything he thought of saying. "I didn't want to put her out any more than I already had so – I thought that having some help around the house would make up for it. I didn't ask her about it," Harry said wondering now if he should have, "but everyone seems to like it, especially Dobby and Mrs. Weasley."

"The lawsuit that Mr. Lichfield filed on your behalf states that you were left in the care of your muggle relatives," the woman said looking up at him sharply as if she knew that he'd been weaseling around with his words. "Surely they would have told you of your parents. Why would you wish to 'leave them behind,' as you put it?"

His stomach fell but when it landed it felt like it'd been stuffed with red-hot coals. As he met her eyes his stomach started to settle back into place while the coals got hotter by the minute.

_'Fine,_' he thought. _'If she wants the unvarnished truth then that's exactly what she's going to get._'

.o0O0o.

_'This is all Lichfield's fault,_' Barchoke thought to himself as he slowly opened the door to what should be the Grand Overseer's bedchamber. _'I never should have gotten involved with the boy, even if my job did demand it. No,_' he countered as he tried to make out anything in the blackness he saw inside, _'that would've only seen me dead for mismanagement when the problems came to light and what goblin could pass up the possibility for the vengeance they'd sworn to have?'_

He stuck his head inside only to get a blast of stale air, solid waste, and rotting offal straight in the nose that was so pungent that he could practically taste it.

_'Gah!'_ Barchoke wanted to cry, but couldn't lest it give away his position. This was all that little female human's fault, he knew that now. Females always caused problems, even with a good merger under your belt, and one word about the Stone from that one had been enough to make this whole thing inevitable. _'Curse every frizzy hair on her fuzzy little head,_' he thought sourly,_ 'I should have chained her to a desk in Legal whether they liked it or not._'

His dagger led the way as he slowly entered, eyes searching for any hint of movement as they grew accustomed to the deeper blinding blackness, ears straining for any hint of sound. Largrot had to be here, he had to. There was nowhere else to check unless the goblin had abandoned sense entirely and tried to disappear in the teeming swarm of goblins Below, and what was there to gain by doing that? No Grand Overseer had done anything for them in Gotts knows how long, they certainly weren't going to rally behind one they didn't know to overthrow his would-be supplanter.

_'Maybe he's already dead,_' he thought to himself hopefully, and not for the first time. _'He hasn't been seen in over a week, he might have decided to end it before anyone else could._'

For some reason Barchoke didn't think he'd ever be so lucky, otherwise he wouldn't be here now. Just three weeks ago he'd had a corner office that was practically nothing but windows, a cushy job where no one expected him to do anything, and a secretary who'd never expected any sort of advancement from him at all. Now he consorted with foreign wizards, defied the Ministry, seized an island, everyone looked to him for what to do, and he was pretty sure that the Ministry wanted his head.

Yes, even with the boy dragging him into his Dumbledore mess his life would've settled back down again eventually and he might've been able to let his hair regrow when they were done. When he thought of it though, he'd been shaving it for so long it'd probably feel funny to have hair. Now, because of the girl and that blasted Stone, he was going to be made Grand Overseer whether he wanted to be or not.

If she hadn't said anything and things had died down, that would've been a perfect time to get things started with Trixie, not a week and a half ago when people had started deferring to him and a promotion seemed imminent. Now it was hard to find his own secretary and he suspected that she wouldn't turn up again unless he had a different title. It was hard to believe how much you could want another merger once you've had your first one, and now if he saw her again he might not let her leave until she had a little acquisition on the way.

As the moment lengthened he was gradually able to distinguish differences the various shades of shadow all around him. There was a great dark blob some distance to the right that might be a bed and Barchoke thought that the far wall might have a dark curtain on it to black out any light from outside. He decided it'd be best to inch his way across to the window. If he could only get there then maybe he could find out–

His foot suddenly slid forward on what he could only hope was rotten food to clatter into unseen dishes in the darkness. Was it too much to ask for a shut-in at least to be clean about it? He heard more than saw something move somewhere in front of him and regained his footing just in time to be blinded by the harsh light of day as the curtain was ripped down and with a grunt was thrown at him.

Stumbling blindly aside to avoid the hurled cloth, he tried to force his eyes to work properly. Landing against a chest of drawers, he spun around just in time for his chest to erupt in pain as a wooden chest collided with him, knocking his dagger aside. He looked up to see Grand Overseer Largrot standing between the window and a large four-poster bed with only his meaty mounds of fat to preserve his modesty.

With a roar showing far more strength than Barchoke had ever thought possible, the other goblin hefted a nearby table and threw it sending him scattering, slipping, and sliding away before it could crash down where he was. Breaths coming in short panicked pants as he crouched next to a large four-poster bed, he looked around for happened to his dagger – or anything else that he could use as a weapon against that lumbering ogre of a goblin. What happened to this being just a technicality?

To his right out of sight Barchoke heard the sound of wood splintering. He didn't know what that was but whatever it was promised him a good bludgeoning if he got close to Largrot and probably a good poking if he stayed back. Spotting a glint from his dagger across the way at the same time the other goblin's fat feet flapped along the stone floor, he threw away the crazy notion of running out to get it and instead shimmied under the bed as quickly as he could.

The underside of the bed was cramped and dusty. As well it should be since it seemed to be the prime dumping ground for Largrot's trash for the past week. It left him with precious little room to move and he realized too late that there were more noise hazards down here than anywhere else. If the other goblin did have something that he could reach in and spear him with this fight would be over before he ever got started, and hiding under a bed was an undignified place to die.

"BARCHOKE!" Grand Overseer Largrot heavily puffed as he shuffled around the four-poster bed as Barchoke became as still and quiet as possible. "You? You?!"

Directly in front of him Barchoke saw the flabby foot of his would-be killer and against the wall behind it, the blade of his own dagger. If he could get to that then maybe he would stand a better chance, maybe running about getting slices in where he could while dodging the slower goblin's attacks. If only he had been trained in how to do without being killed that that might have sounded like a sensible plan, but as it was…

"Where are you, you spineless whelp!" the Grand Overseer croaked out. "Come out… so I can rip your head… off," the other goblin panted as an idea started to form in Barchoke's mind. "You're not… fit… to lead… anything."

Grabbing a cup and quickly dumping out in front of him what he hoped was water, Barchoke tossed the goblet to clatter along the floor to the left. As he'd hoped, Largrot lumbered in that direction as he scrambled across the puddle to flee his vulnerable position. He turned and tried pushing with his feet to get free from the bed but his stupid little suit buttons were stuck on something and wouldn't let him move.

Largrot let out another roar at finding that he'd been tricked and an instant later the bedpost to Barchoke's right splintered as a club as thick as his head smashed through it.

_'Good Gotts!'_ he thought and with one mighty shove hurled himself out from under the bed, ripping the buttons off his jacket as he went and feeling a sharp pain in the flesh of his scalp an instant before he rammed into the wall. Pulling his hand away from his head, it came back green with blood. Scrambling up, he grabbed his dagger, not knowing if he wanted to attack or flee.

Huffing and puffing with shallow breaths, a sweaty Largrot clumsily tried to untangle his club from the dark bed hangings one-handedly as the other clutched his chest with a pained expression on his face. Thinking this could be his chance Barchoke darted forward, only to jump back immediately when the other goblin weakly thrust part of the makeshift club at him like the butt of a spear.

_'I can take him. I can take him,_' he danced back, trying to tell himself that his victory was all but assured. _'He's tired and weak. He's used up all his energy, so end him!'_

All that aside Barchoke stood rooted to the spot wondering why they had to do this at all.

_'Just send him off somewhere,_' part of him said. _'Fire him and send him to live on the Barracks level or Below for the rest of his life; it's not like anyone would respect him now._'

He shifted his blade but Largrot took that moment of indecision to launch another attack. The bed hanging was ripped off and streamed along behind the club like a wicked black banner. Barchoke only had time to deflect it to the side before club and goblin collapsed to the floor with a crash.

Gripping his dagger with both hands, Barchoke kept his eyes on the downed goblin. Was this a trick? A trap? Was Largrot trying to lull him into lowering his guard and coming close so that he could crush his throat with his bare hands? Nothing he'd ever gone through had prepared him for this. Facing down adversaries in an Overseer's meeting was one thing but he was a banker, why was he expected to actually kill anyone? They had guards for this sort of thing!

Looking about for something longer than his dagger, Barchoke grabbed a broken table leg off the floor and poked Largrot's exposed hand with it. The large goblin didn't make a sound but the club had tumbled from his grasp a bit. Remembering what it was that he'd been sent in here to do, Barchoke raised the table leg again to give the hand a good whack that should've broken a few of its fat fingers, and still Largrot hadn't responded.

Inching a bit closer, Barchoke gave the other goblin's fat head a good poke. Still nothing. Throwing the table leg as far from the other goblin as he could, he darted out to drag Largrot's makeshift club away from him before stepping back and readying his dagger again just in case. The moment held but still nothing happened – and then it struck him. The only breaths he heard in the room were his own.

Noises came from beyond the bedchamber door and he knew that the others could be here in moments. Looking down at his uninjured opponent and a dagger that was clean of anyone's blood but his own, this was hardly the kind of victory that any of them would expect or respect, and if there was one thing he needed to have if he wanted to survive it was a respectable victory. One thing was certain though; however they set up their new way of doing things he was going to make sure that a non-lethal retirement somewhere was what was waiting for him if he ever fell out of favor.

So resolved Barchoke went up to the folds of the Grand Overseer's neck and stabbed his dagger in as far as he could. When it came back a dark green he almost lost his lunch and part of him hoped that the fat old goblin had already been dead before he did that.

_'Some great goblin warrior I turned out to be,_' he thought.

"Grand Overseer?" a voice that he was sure was Bankor's called out from beyond the other room. "We heard a disturbance," the far-off goblin said as if he hadn't been the one to corner him into doing this, "Is there anyone there?"

Barchoke slipped out of his ruined jacket and took off his tie, leaving them both on the befouled floor that was slowly getting more so with the growing pool of blood. He'd add his soiled shoes and pants too but he wasn't about to go out there almost naked; he wasn't Largrot and never would be. Somehow he'd find a way to avoid that fate, even if it meant not eating any more of Slaggran's cream-filled muggle pastries.

He pulled open the bedchamber door feeling more alive and confident after the fight than he had any time previously. If anyone took a swing at him now he was sure that he could outrun any of them; he'd done it once, he could do it again. If there was one good thing that he could say about Largrot though it was that he at least had not soiled his office like he had his bedchamber.

One or two other Overseers looked in on him as he came towards them back in the meeting room, but it was Bankor who looked like he was going to speak. Barchoke shot him a spiteful glare for getting him into this mess and for almost asking how it went; just showing back up again should've told the other goblin how things went. The reaction he was most concerned with though was Gutripper's.

The scarred and sinewy Overseer of Security looked down at the blasted crown of gold Braglast had provided as if weighing what it meant before looking up at him with his mismatched eyes.

"Do you have any idea what in Gott's name you're doing?" he asked with what appeared to be a strange case of non-hostile curiosity.

"Yes," Barchoke said decisively, pointing his blood-coated dagger at him as disparate thoughts came together in his mind to form a plan. "You said the I.C.W. wanted a settlement," he continued, quickly moving the dagger to point at Bankor just so the temperamental Overseer wouldn't think he had been singled out for aggression. "We're going to give them a settlement like they've never seen before, but if the Ministry wants their wizards back they're still going to have to pay. And send someone to get this Hobson; I've got a job for him."

Bankor seemed so surprised at the sudden turn of events that he stood there in stunned silence.

"You heard him, MOVE!" Gutripper yelled at him, though it seemed for some reason that he wasn't fully behind these nebulous new developments yet.

"Yes, Grand Overseer!" the little minister said to Barchoke before darting towards the door.

"Tell them to find my secretary, pack up my office, and bring me new clothes," Barchoke shouted for good measure. _'Yes,_' he thought. _'Now things are going in the right direction._'

"Oh!" Slaggran cried his eyes wide with joy. "Does this mean that I can have your old office?"

.o0O0o.

Eavesdropping was a nasty habit, completely improper, but it's not like she could have avoided it, even if she wanted too. She'd told Arthur that vertical wasn't the way to go when it came to houses but he was so giddy to get on with it that it was hard to crush his enthusiasm, much less make him see sense. Whatever the children did with their lives she was going to make sure that they learned from that mistake; they'd thank her for it later.

What she'd heard about those Dudsley-muggles was – was – Well, it was so bad that she didn't know a word for how bad it was. Even if it came through a little muffled there was no mishearing that. What was Albus thinking leaving Harry with people like that? Did the man even bother thinking at all? He might as well have given the child to a female You-Know-Who to raise, like Bellatrix Lastrange, or one of the other foul families that thought they were better than everyone.

It was remarkable that the boy came through all that in one piece let alone come out being such an honest, wholesome, and likable boy. Surviving the Killing Curse was one thing, surviving the household he described to Madam Bones defied all explanation. Albus certainly had a lot to answer for, as did this Petumpa Derpley. Drunken parents, car crashes, Harry hunts, and cupboards under the stairs? What kind of mother would allow that to go on in her house? Certainly not a respectable one, that's for sure.

Molly took in a big breath and let it out as she smoothed her favorite blue dress and tried to get rid of all those thoughts, because now was not the time for them. Merlin knew that she was anxious enough as it was without adding all that to it and this was too important to go wrong. It couldn't go wrong, it couldn't. Somehow she'd make this work.

Things would be so much easier though if she wasn't so terrified. Why couldn't she just stay in her nice comfy kitchen forever? It'd certainly worked for her so far. Staying in her kitchen when her children needed more than what she and Arthur could provide though was the same now as quitting; and worse, it was quitting without even bothering to try.

Perhaps these people wouldn't be willing to give her a shot – and yes, it'd be hurtful and embarrassing if they didn't – but that wouldn't change what had to happen. This had to be done for her family, for her kids, so if this didn't work out then she'd have to pick herself up and find somewhere else that would take her on. After all, if Harry could throw himself out into the great wide world not knowing where he'd land or how he'd end up, much like she and Arthur had in the past, then certainly she could do the same again.

When she thought of it like that it sounded like some sort of grand adventure. She had never liked adventures though – that's why she had never liked flying, it made her tummy all jumbly just thinking about it, and how could you gamble like that? It felt like she was on the roof of the Burrow when it was engulfed in flames, and no one had a broom to save her, so she was being yelled at to jump. But how could you jump when you didn't know what was going to happen and where you were was okay for now? But how could you not jump when you knew that, eventually, you'd burn and fall and die anyway?

She really needed to stop thinking about this. What she needed now was something to distrac–

"Sir!" a young man said as he darted through the collection of desks towards the thin, gray-haired man with an unlit cigar that'd spent the last fifteen minutes pacing back-and-forth while reading the latest offering this hive of bees had produced for him. "Sir, this just came in. A dispatch from Gringotts."

Molly's stomach turned over and took a dive to the floor. So much of what's been happening involved the bank somehow that anything could be on that piece of parchment. The Hit Wizards would be freed, they were officially at war with the Ministry, there was no funny gold created and the bank doors would be opened again, all the gold was worthless and everyone was doomed, and that's not even considering the possibility that something could've happened to Bill. She needed to get him into a boring job with a nice girl and making little Weasleys as soon as possible; that would keep him safe.

"Merlin's baggy y-fronts!" the man said from around his cigar. "How do those tricky goblins think they're going to be doing that?"

"What do you think?" the eager young person said, practically jumping from one foot to another. "You think it's _Weekend_-worthy?"

The older man grunted, "It might be lead-worthy on Monday, unless something bigger just happens to walk in today, but you'll need more to go on than that. Work with Honoria on this," he said gesturing off to someone else. "One of you find what specifics you can while the other sniffs out the Ministry's response."

As if soaring down to pounce on her prey, a woman with the most remarkable blonde ringlets swooped in from the side as the young man left.

"Sir, you know that I've been following the Gringotts stories," the woman protested. "I have quite a few contacts there. If anyone's going to–"

"I know how big you are, Rita, you don't have to remind me," the man said in return. "Or do I need to remind you that I'm the one who made you that way?"

The man dismissed all of that with a wave.

"You've been everywhere and doing everything lately and that can't continue," the man went on to say before gesturing around them. "I've got other people to put to work or there's no point in paying them. If Gringotts insists on making news then it's time we spun that off as a beat on its own. You can take it," he said with a bit of a look, "but it seems a bit beneath you. You're our biggest name so I want to give you our biggest and best stories – if that's okay with you."

The woman, who had to be their top reporter, Rita Skeeter, seemed torn about it for a moment before seeming to see that it was for the best.

"I suppose next you'll want me to tell those two who to talk to and how best to approach things so that they don't mess up all of my hard work?" the woman said in such a snippy tone that her own mother would've popped her on the mouth for it.

"If you'd be so kind," the man said cordially before the woman stormed off in a huff.

_'This is it,_' Molly thought as the gray-haired man came her way. _'Merlin, please let this go well._'

"This'll do," he said as he stopped by a woman's desk outside the office and handed her the piece of parchment he'd been reading. "Send anything else to me at home and I'll look it over tomorrow. I'm heading out early."

"Mr. Cuffe, a woman was interested in talking to you about taking over the Glenda Goodwitch column," the woman said to her boss as Molly felt a rather large jumble in her tummy.

"Write back and tell her to come by sometime next–"

"She's right over there," the woman said, gesturing to her and Molly tried to seem like she hadn't been listening.

The man named Cuffe took the cigar out of his mouth and turned to look at her. Molly gave him a polite smile and a bit of a nod as if her entire life wasn't resting on this moment. The gray-haired man then turned back to the other woman, murmured something silently, and then walked into his office without sparing her another look.

Molly had never felt so rejected in her life. Maybe the woman would know somewhere that was hiring so that she wouldn't have to go crawling from shop to shop and–

"You can go in now," the woman said, rousing her suddenly free-falling spirits so fast the swoop in her stomach reminded her of those cursed flying classes back at Hogwarts.

Molly wobbly got to her feet, smoothed her dress, and clutched her handbag like it was a shield.

"Good luck," the woman whispered to her with a smile while all Molly could do was nod in response.

The office was a small, cramped thing that smelled strongly of old paper. Barely big enough for his desk and two small chairs, and virtually every bit of space taken up with stacks upon stacks of old _Daily Prophets_, it was easy to see why Mr. Cuffe chose to do his pacing outside. The man himself sat behind his small desk rooting through one stash of paper and another before finding a piece that seemed suitably clean.

He took his unlit cigar out of his mouth and stuck it in a large cup with several others as he gestured for her to come in and take a seat. Judging from the state of them the man may not have smoked them but he certainly liked to chew on them. Perhaps it was the chance of burning things down that stopped him from lighting them.

"You've got Ministry Secretarial Pool written all over you," the man said as she sat on the very edge of her seat.

"Um, no, I've – I've never worked for the Ministry," Molly said uncertainly having never even considered the possibility before. "My husband Arthur does though."

"Someone important?" Cuffe asked with a raised eyebrow.

"He's the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office," she said with more than a bit of pride.

The gray-haired man dismissed that with a wave.

"So what's your work history like, Mrs…?"

"Measley – I mean, Weasley. Molly Weasley," she quickly corrected herself as she tried to calm her jumpy nerves. "I've been a wife, mother, and homemaker for twenty five years," she said hoping to puff things up a bit before having to deliver the worst bit. "But besides that I – I can't say that I have anything in the way of work experience, professionally speaking."

How quickly the man went from jotting down her information to only politely disinterested was very worrisome.

"Hogwarts or home-schooled?" Mr. Cuffe asked, though he made no move to record her answer.

"Hogwarts," Molly said, sure that that would've surprised him. "And I always did well on my essays for class."

"O.W.L.s? N.E.W.T.s?" he asked, spinning a quill around between his fingers and scrutinizing her the way she would a shifty broom.

"In the Acceptable range or a bit above, though I don't recall precisely," she said wondering why it'd make a difference after so long. "I never actually took my N.E.W.T.s though; I left after my sixth year since I was already married by then. Most of what I've learned came from outside of the classroom though," Molly added hoping to keep the man from sending her away. "Practical spells for housekeeping, child-rearing, mending odds and ends, all sorts of things they never taught us at school."

"So why do you want to take over for Glenda Goodwitch?" Mr. Cuffe asked, picking up one of the unsmoked cigars and leaning back in his chair to sit with it awkwardly hanging out of the side of his mouth. "To be honest, I never saw the appeal."

"Oh, no, she was wonderful," she said honestly. "Reading her helped immeasurably when we were just starting out. _The Daily Prophet_ wouldn't be the same without her. The woman knew everything about everything."

"She certainly likes to think so anyway," the man said with a smirk and then went on at her puzzled look. "My mother-in-law; I thought I could keep her out of my hair by letting her tell everyone in the country how to live. It's worked remarkably well. Now that she can barely hold a quill though…"

"Oh, that's too bad," Molly said sympathetically.

"Not for me," Mr. Cuffe replied. "It means she can't hound me with howlers anymore. Even with that, I don't know if I'm in the market for continuing the column."

"But they'll always be people looking for advice," she countered, "and the woman was an institution. With her gone they won't have anyone to turn to."

"Good point," he said thoughtfully. "Even if it's never been popular with advertisers, why have those readers go elsewhere? Still," the man said taking the cigar out to gesture with it. "I don't know if I'd trust it to someone whose only qualifications are raising a couple of kids."

"Seven," Molly said firmly, seeing an opening and hopping on it with both feet.

"What?"

"I've raised seven children, six of them boys, and all of them are Hogwarts age or older," she informed him. "The oldest, Bill, was Prefect and Head Boy; Charlie was Prefect and Quidditch Captain. Percy is a Prefect and may well be Head Boy by this time next year unless something goes disastrously wrong, which isn't likely knowing him. The twins are rambunctious, so there's that I've had to deal with too, and that's on top of Arthur and me literally building a home of our own."

"Now that's a narrative I can market," Cuffe said with a smile and a glint in his eye. "You don't have some kind of objection against a bit of brand promotion, do you? We don't pay much unless writers prove popular with ad buyers."

"I – I'm not sure I follow," Molly said curiously.

"Ads," he repeated as if that was supposed to be something obvious. "Advertisements; a newspaper can't run without them. They're what give _The Daily Prophet_ a daily profit rather than a daily layoff. With a bio like yours though I could just see them queuing up to have you describe how great their products have been in a house with nine people in it. Merlin!" Cuffe exclaimed, "I should have done this thirty years ago but that old hag wouldn't have done it."

"Does – does this mean that I've got the job?" she asked hopefully.

"We'll have you on a temporary basis until we know whether you're working out or not," the man said going back to making feverish notes about something or other. "You don't mind waiting a few weeks to start, do you? We'll need to make sure the readers are aware and comfortable with the change before we start to phase you in."

"Oh, no, that'll be fine," Molly said with a smile she couldn't contain. "I was hoping that I could wait until Harry and the boys went off to Hogwarts anyway."

"This Harriet's your daughter?" Mr. Cuffe asked without looking up at her.

"Uh – no, Harry's a friend of my youngest son, Ron," she explained, "more of a friend-of-the-family, really, as well as a renter. Ginny's my daughter, she'll be going too; her first year."

"Hold up," he said looking at her curiously. "If your third son isn't in his seventh year yet and your youngest is this Ginny, who just made it in, how is it that your youngest son has a friend who's able to rent a room? He couldn't be more than third or fourth year, at most. And where're the boy's parents in this?"

"Second year, actually," Molly couldn't help correcting him even though she felt like she'd just stepped in something that she shouldn't have. "And there are… extenuating circumstances with him that I wouldn't feel comfortable going into."

Cuffe looked at her for a moment before letting out a cry of "Ha!" as he put it all together.

"You stay right where you are," the man said, pointing at her with his cigar as he got up and quickly worked his way around his desk to the door. "Rita!" he called, "Rita, get in here!"

Molly knew that things were getting worse and worse but if she made a break for it now who knew what would happen. _'Merlin, they already know my name. And if I leave now I may never get another chance._'

"Rita, this is Molly Weasley," Mr. Cuffe said when he finally returned, the woman in ringlets following along behind him. "She may be taking over the Goodwitch column in a couple weeks."

The indefinite way he said that didn't make her feel well at all.

"We're not going to keep her with that name, are we?" the new woman asked as she scrutinized her. "The sound is much too lowly. What was your maiden name?"

"Prewett," she replied, defying her to say anything against that one.

"Not _that_ Prew–?"

"–Doesn't matter," Cuffe interrupted as he settled back into his chair. "She also happens to be renting a room to a twelve year old Hogwarts student named Harry," he said with heavy emphasis.

"So you're the one that's been housing young Mister Potter," Rita Skeeter said with a smile as she took a seat beside her. "That grouchy old contact of mine's been playing cat-and-mouse with me whenever I ask about him," she said in a confiding manner that had none of the accompanying warmth. "The stories he's tossed my way to distract from it have been worth the wait but he's fooling himself if he believes that I actually think that a lawsuit about some tawdry books was as bad as it got. Now that you're here I'm sure that'll be enough to finally get the boy's story out of the grizzled old–"

The woman stopped suddenly and mouthed a two syllable word often heard around only one individual she knew.

"You know Mr. Lichfield?" Molly asked, putting unspoken occupation together with the man's description.

"You're my witness that I never said the man's name," Miss Skeeter said with a smile to Mr. Cuffe.

"Duly noted," the man agreed. "Mrs. Weasley seems to be quite the accomplished child-raiser," he continued before going on to paint a rather rosy picture of her home and children. "Plenty of good role models there for the boy, so I can see why he'd be placed there. The question then is 'why now?' because the impression I got was that it's a recent development."

Molly stubbornly kept her mouth shut though her stomach protested at holding back all that bile and urge to give her opinion.

"Not to me it isn't," Rita said with a considering look. "Going on to describe what a warm and welcoming home he now has would be just the way to end the story; it's certainly not the whole of it though. The real crux of it to me has always been these muggle relatives he's lived with – even that fellow confirmed that he's lived there – and he's implied that they weren't very nice people at all."

"Of course they're not nice people," Molly said bitterly. "If I knew where they lived I'd curse them within an inch of their lives. The household he described is – is _abhorrent_," she proclaimed, finally able to conjure up a word repulsive enough to describe those people. "The fact that he came out of there being the wonderful boy he is and in one piece is astonishing."

"You two keep talking," Cuffe said eagerly as he got up to make his way around the desk again.

"Barney," the other woman said, motioning him to come closer so she could whisper in his ear for a moment. "Send that message to him, those words exactly."

"I'm not your messenger boy, but yeah, I'll send it," the man complained as he headed out. "Heads up!" he cried as he stepped out the office door into that common work area. "Whatever you're working on, push it as fast as you can and no one goes home 'til they're done. We've got a _Weekend_ to fill."

"He doesn't mean you, of course," Miss Skeeter said with a pat on the hand that had no softness to it.

Whipping out her wand, the woman pointed it at the open office door and a moment later a quill came flying in that was almost the exact same shade of blue as her dress. Reaching over, Rita grabbed the notes that Mr. Cuffe had taken, shook her head, blanked them out, and then enlarged the parchment before putting the quill upon it.

"Now what have you heard about Harry's muggle relatives?" the woman asked inquisitively.

"If you're going to get the story from him anyway I don't want my name mentioned anywhere in it," Molly said, doubt making her bounce back and forth between wanting to tell and not. "I don't want the house flooded with owls and the last thing we need is for Harry to think I betrayed him in some way."

"You're worried about being flooded with owls and you're taking over for Glenda Goodwitch?" Rita asked with an overly arched eyebrow. "Are you sure you know what you're getting into?"

"That's different," she said firmly. "You mention me or my family's name and I'll curse you worse than Lichfield ever could, and he was an Auror."

"Fine, your name won't be mentioned," Rita agreed with a roll of her eyes. "It's not you that I'm after anyway."

Years as a mother had the silent "not yet" at the end of that sentence come through loud and clear and it only redoubled her doubts about what she should do. It was three things that finally decided her: first, everyone deserved to know what a wonderful young man that Harry was. Second was that if Harry did take seeing his story in print the wrong way his little girlfriend, Hermione, was due to be on hand tomorrow to help them deal with it. Third, and most importantly, everyone deserved to know the name Patina – no, it was a flower – Petunia.

Yes, everyone in the country deserved to know the name Petunia Dirtly and that what she did, what she allowed to happen, was no way to treat children.

.o0O0o.

Lester looked at the little strip of paper that had arrived at his apartment a short time ago and read it again as he mulled over his response.

_'Come in. Big changes. Settlement on Isle planned. Input needed. G.O. Barchoke._'

It was remarkable how such a simple line of fragmented thoughts could hint at so much more and at the same time convey the feeling that the earth was sinking beneath your feet. At least the goblin's ability to comically understate the obvious was still intact.

The fact that there was some sort of settlement on the Isle of Gringotts issue in the works was definitely a big change; huge from the goblin point of view, though what that would all mean would be anyone's guess. The more curious and unexpected part was the G. in front of Barchoke's name. He rarely ever used his title in their notes or conversation but 'O. Barchoke' had been seen before. 'G.O. Barchoke' was something he'd honestly never thought would happen, or if it did he'd never live to see it.

_'Well, congrats to him on the promotion,_' Lichfield thought, raising the last bit of his apple bread in salute before gobbling it up and washing it down with the remains of his apple juice.

As soon as he set the cup down it was whisked away and a smiling house-elf stood before him.

"Does Mister Lichy want some more?" the excitable Mipsy asked.

"No, thank you," he said with a smile. "It was very good but I think I'm appled out for today."

Mipsy went on her way without another word. The changes in the last few weeks had definitely seemed to improve things with her though now being over-stuffed at meals was starting to become a minor concern. The last thing he ever expected to do was to die fat, but that seemed a distinct possibility.

Still, with Barchoke getting bumped upstairs he was left in a rather odd position. He was now the trusted human adviser to the most powerful goblin in the country at a time when the divide between them and the Ministry was frayed to say the least. That divide might be coming back together for all he knew but the last thing he needed was the Ministry attaching any ill feelings to him simply because of where he worked and who he worked with; that wouldn't be doing the kid any favors.

He wearily scrubbed a hand over his face before rooting through his open briefcase for a scrap of parchment to write on. Strange to think that his first act in such an important and powerful position would be to tell the leader of an entire people that he couldn't help him at the moment, but that's exactly what he had to do. Lester supposed that it was a good thing that he hadn't been put in Slytherin after all because just the thought of doing this probably would've had him die of a heart attack.

_'Besides,_' he thought as he scratched out his short reply. _'It sounds like he's got everything well in hand anyway._'

Folding it up, Lester went over to the back window in his apartment, opened it, and gave a sharp whistle. Soon after, a white-faced, mottled-brown barn owl landed. As much as he would've preferred to use Mipsy to run messages back and forth to give her things to do, rather than give the goblins any reason to be mean to her he'd decided to buy the services of an old post owl instead. The problem with those were that you could never tell what kind of owl you were getting until it was too late and this one had the habit of turning its head completely upside down and staring at him.

"Quit it," he said with a poke as the owl looked downwaysup at him. "That's damn creepy."

As he tied the note to its leg he briefly considered taking the damn thing back to where he got it but it'd probably been as cheap as it was because no one else would take it and they wanted to get rid of it. In the end he just gave the no-named bird another poke and shooed it away. With a low groan he settled back into his chair to look over everything he'd compiled for the kid's case again.

Now that they'd spoken to Madam Bones the suit would be privy to more and more people within the Ministry, meaning a leak to the _Prophet_ was bound to happen in days. Hopefully by the time word got around to Rita Skeeter he'd have a way of framing the issue so that Dumbledore loomed large enough that full responsibility stayed focused on him for leaving the boy at the Dursley's. The problem was that conditions there had been worse than even he'd known about. If the old man tried to act surprised, people might–

Another owl landed on the windowsill and cried out, interrupting his thoughts. Mipsy was there in a flash before he could even let out a frustrated cry of his own. Before he knew it the bird had flown away again and he was reading another piece of disconcerting mail.

_'I know where he lives. Three Broomsticks, one hour. You're finally paying up. Rita._'

"Ah crap," Lester said as he pushed himself up and gathered all of his things and threw them into his briefcase. How long did it take for this thing to get here? He was probably already late. The last thing he needed was to be on that foul woman's bad side because he had no intention of taking the blame for what'd happened to the kid.

"Mipsy!" he called.

.o0O0o.

Things had gotten a lot quieter for her since the rumor-filled day and the long, slumberous night at Hogwarts. For one, Mad-eye's office now sat vacant and no matter how often you slacked off in your cubical you didn't have to fear the _thunk!_ of his wooden leg coming up behind you to chew you out. For another, – and she knew that she really shouldn't think of it this way but… – she never got to go outside and play anymore since most of her training was confined to reading books of procedures dating back to before the war.

Still, things could've been worse. Word around the Auror Office was that the goblins had wanted Jameson to be handed over to them for what he'd done and it was only Madam Bones that'd kept it from happening. That hadn't kept Scrimgeour from reading him the riot act for putting everyone in the alley at risk though or from threatening to run him out of the program entirely. As it was they were under strict orders not to discuss what happened at Diagon Alley with anyone and not to mention any internal matters with outsiders.

It all made for a very quiet, cautious, and oppressive-feeling work environment. Things had gotten so bad that no one was quite sure what had happened to Jameson. Some said that he had cracked up and had to be put into a long-term ward at Saint Mungo's. Others said that he had tried to off himself, but all of his stuff was still here, which spoke against the 'he quit' and 'thrown out' theories too. Personally, she was of the opinion that it was more along the lines of being sent home and told to stand in the corner and think about what you'd done more than anything else.

The blonde buffoon may have been irritating to no end but that didn't mean that she'd wanted anything really bad to happen to him. It was almost enough to make her reconsider going out with him, at least once for pity's sake. Almost, but not quite.

After all, if he really was in that fragile of a state she didn't want to be responsible for keeping it up. It felt like a shallow thing to do but if the only options were a lifetime spent bending over backwards to constantly reassure an emotionally damaged person that you weren't really into that you'd never leave them, maintaining your distance by not becoming involved, or feeling responsible if things didn't work out and they ended up offing themselves, then what choice did you really have?

She tried to focus enough to read another line out of the Big Book of Boring Boringness but it was no use. Things had changed so much that she didn't even recognize the world that it described in its pages so it was like suffering through History of Magic all over again. There were no constables, fly-by-night patrols, or any other whochadosits, so what's the point of knowing about them? It wasn't like they were going to suddenly pop back into being overnight; it'd take years to train up enough people run it, and even then it'd be horribly out of date.

If they didn't want her to get in any dueling practice any more then maybe she could just close her eyes and–

"Nymphadora Tonks!" a woman cried out, making her jump in her seat and look around for where her mother was.

She breathed a little easier when she realized that the voice was all wrong for her mother though. Plus, it was both too far away and too near because there was no way that her mother would be in here in the first place. She tried to put thoughts of Jameson behind her and get a hold of herself; those days were safely behind her.

_'There's no need to pretend to be plain, boring Dora Tonks anymore,_' she told herself. _'Not all attention from girls is negative._'

As she put her head above the walls of the cubical though she saw the one thing she'd hoped she wouldn't see. Department Head Amelia Bones was looking across the room and right at her, and she did not look happy. The reputedly harsh taskmistress crooked a finger at her and Tonks felt all the color drain out of her hair and face.

_'Ah crap,_' she thought as she made her way to the older woman in zombielike fashion. _'What did I do? I haven't done anything. Why am I getting in trouble?'_

Professor Sprout had never been the kind of Head of House to dress someone down the way Professor McGonagall did in class but she'd always thought that woman's weapon had been worse. Sprout would be your champion all day long and encourage you to do your best, which made you feel so horrible for disappointing her when you inevitably got into trouble that she never had to say anything at all. You ended up setting yourself a punishment that was probably more severe than she would've given you, but you knew that you deserved every second of it.

Madam Bones singling her out like this made her feel like she was being called into the office by the sitting professor, her Head of House, the Deputy Headmistress, and the Headmaster all rolled into one but the last thing she needed was to start inventing things to be sorry over just because she didn't know what she'd done. Heads of other people peeked above their cubicle walls, the looks on their faces clearly communicating that they were wondering what she'd done too. It would've been the first time that any of them had seen "Pinkie" Tonks with mousy brown hair but she probably couldn't get it to change now if her life depended on it.

The feeling of being in trouble didn't get any better when Madam Bones led her to Mad-Eye's old office and Scrimgeour was there. Now she was going to have images of Mad-Eye standing behind them both and scowling at her to contend with too. Knowing the old Auror's fondness for invisibility cloaks though she couldn't rule out the possibility that he was really there wanting to yell at her too but unwilling to break his cover.

The door was barely closed before they started in on her.

"Do we have to remind you who you work for, Miss Tonks?" Madam Bones asked nostrils flared with anger that was tightly under control.

"Er – no ma'am," she answered.

"Then how is it that I was left to go into a meeting with a child who has an enormous future ahead of him," she asked, gesturing as if the boy was sitting on the other side of the door. "Who's influenced this country almost since the day he was born, only to discover what a horrible life that he's truly had, with no warning at all? And worse, to then find out that one of my trainee officers knew about it and said nothing?"

What her boss was talking about hit her like a lead weight and Tonks knew what she had to do.

"That was all Mad-Eye's fault!" she said defensively. "Him and that friend of his. I didn't even know why I was there until he said the man really was a bailiff – as if that's supposed to excuse him from kidnapping an old woman earlier – and I'm not even sure if _that_ was the real reason I was there and not some kind of one-upmanship between them."

"And you think that makes it any better?" Scrimgeour asked, clasping his hands in front of him as he leaned slightly against the desk. "There doesn't seem to be reports on any of that. Care to explain how that could be? I've never known Alastor to let anyone get away with being so lax but I can't deny the evidence when it's right in front of my face."

"Mad-Eye probably sat on it like that other old man wanted us to sit on the kid's relatives," Tonks said wondering how many times she'd have to give that excuse and whether it would even work at all. "He said that he'd take care of it because it wasn't something that happens every day. I wouldn't even know where to start looking for how all of that bailiff stuff is even supposed to work."

"So you're making good progress and taking the new reading assignment seriously, I take it?" the lion-like man asked with an arched eyebrow that said that she'd been caught in something she had never seen coming.

_'Wait, was there bailiff stuff in that useless rigmarole?'_ she asked herself as she tried to remember anything that hardback bed pillow had said.

"Well, if she's looking for an education in 'all of that bailiff stuff' then she's in luck," Bones said waspishly. "This Lichfield fellow made it clear that his position in that regard was only temporary. Since she's shown more loyalty to the Potter boy than the Ministry she can go find a job with them. I have it on good authority that once the suit against Dumbledore is over they'll need someone to sort through the boy's fan mail."

"That counts her out then," Scrimgeour interjected. "That'd require a penchant for paperwork."

"You can't throw me out for this," Tonks almost pleaded, unable to believe that this was happening.

"Have you any idea what'll happen when the _Prophet_ finds out about this?" Bones asked. "We're talking about a very serious and politically sensitive issue that you helped 'sit on.' Can you give us a good reason why we shouldn't throw you out?"

"Because I'm good," Tonks said heatedly. "Kingsley's said it, Mad-Eye's said it, I've thrown Jameson around the dueling ring so often that I'm surprised that he hasn't left a permanent mark on the floor, and he's been here two years. There was even a rumor going around that I was an ex-Hit Wizard or something; no one believes that I'm just out of Hogwarts. You put me up against anyone and even if I don't beat them, they'll definitely need a mediwizard," she said staring at Madam Bones defiantly, eager to give the witch a taste of her own medicine.

"Well, that's a reason but not necessarily a good one," Scrimgeour said as Madam Bones put in her monocle and looked at her oddly. "This country's no stranger to power-hungry madmen without us training another. You're here to protect and serve the people, not to go around imposing your own kind of order on them.

"It's not enough to know how to use force," he continued on to say, leading Tonks to wonder if this was lecture time. "Knowing _when_ to use it is just as important – maybe even more so. And that's a lesson you're going to have to learn if we let you stay."

She set her face stubbornly. They weren't going to force her out without a fight.

"I think I have just the way to do that," Madam Bones said with a smile. "If there's anyone that's sure to be a pain to protect and a chore not to choke it would be the boy's muggle relatives, and since you already know where they live..."

Tonks swallowed any complaints she had and said, "I can do it."

"A good rule to live by," Scrimgeour said, "is when in doubt, call for help."

.o0O0o.

The door was barely closed before she spoke.

"Do you think that it's a mistake, keeping her at a time like this?" she asked Rufus.

"Any mistakes she's made aren't faults on her part," he said with a shake of his tawny mane of hair. "It's ours for letting this apprenticeship-like training continue for so long. It made sense during the war when we needed to throw everyone into the field as fast as we could but now, rather than picking up all of the Senior Aurors' survival techniques they're picking up all of their worst faults."

"Diagon Alley showed what that does when combined with youth," Amelia said with a nod. "It doesn't seem fair to keep her on when we're not sure what we want from our officers anymore, much less out of our recruits and trainees. I can't deny the benefits of having a metamorphmagus though and if we cut her loose until we know what we're doing, Merlin knows if we'd ever get her to come back."

"At least she fought for it, which is more than what Jameson did," he replied. "He just meekly tucked his tail between his legs and slunk away. Didn't expect her to morph into you when talking about dueling people, though the pink spiky hair was a nice touch. You think we could get her to have more conscious control over that? She'd soar through Stealth and Tracking if she got that under total control all the time."

"I'd prefer if she not practice with me, if it's all the same to you," she said dryly. "The rest I leave to you; I had quite an eyeful of it already. Jameson officially left then?"

"Not officially, no," Rufus with another shake of his head. "I've given him an extended leave so that he can clear his head, evaluate what he wants, and be far enough away from here not to be savaged by some sanctimonious bureaucrat or visiting goblin once things get back to normal. I think he's more likely to leave though to be honest.

"I've kept his things as they were though, in case he makes the right call," the man went on to say. "Since the motivation for his mistake was concern for his family and the safety of Hogsmeade, I'd thought to steer his training towards reestablishing a local Constabulary there. We've got to shake that blind obedience of authority out of him first though because Alastor was right, we need people to start thinking on their own again. It's a far better option than turning them into a military force."

"A new, standardized way of training them en masse is what we need," Amelia added. "Including a fully fleshed out listing of what the duties and responsibilities are, maybe even requiring a full scale change in Defense education going back all the way to first year at Hogwarts. That would take years to figure out, even without all the problems the school's had finding qualified professors, to say nothing of keeping them."

"Whatever those new roles turn out to be," Rufus said sagely, "the new people coming in, whenever we finally take them, will need leaders to look up to who've already filled those roles. Ones closer to their age will make them feel like they're part of something new rather than a bunch of old timers like the rest of us. Alastor saw something in her, and her combat training was going well, as were the reports on her as a field agent, so Tonks could be that. Jameson too, if he comes around."

She nodded thoughtfully. As much as she'd like for everything to be resolved right then it was impossible to change the entire culture of law enforcement overnight, even when they recognized the need to change. When it came to rebuilding a tumbled down house though, correcting the foundation and having two solid bricks on hand was better than a muddled mess of miscellany any day of the week. Once the appropriate processes were figured out and put into place, all they required would be time, a lot of time, so the only thing to do was to get started.

"So how is Alastor taking to his non-retirement retirement?" she asked, hoping to end on a more positive note.

"I asked but he said that it's better if I don't ask," Rufus said with an odd look on his face. "He said that very strange things tend to happen when you try to get an Unspeakable to speak about the Unspeakable, so I decided to drop it. He looked ready to murder someone though... and I honestly can't say if that's a good sign or a bad one, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** The bit with Tonks and the need to reform the DMLE is something I hadn't foreseen dealing with and is an outgrowth of a response to badkidoh's review on Chapter 25, so yes, your reviews can help shape the story in unexpected ways. That said, certain subjects that went along with the idea of police reform was in no way intended to be a commentary on any modern real-world movements or any other thoughts on the matter. They were simply issues that had to be addressed if I'm going to show the situations that I'm depicting in a realistic manner.

As always, thanks for reading.


	32. An Unsettling Settlement Development

**AN****:** This chapter's dedicated to my longtime best friend, who's never read the HP series let alone this story; he's always been far too busy filling his brain with more academic stuff. An odd choice to make, I know, but if he wants to go thousands of dollars into debt delving into obscure things and learning dead arts and languages (he's my source for Latin and alchemical knowledge) rather than devoting his time to waxing poetic about a fictional world that somebody else invented in the first place then who am I to judge?

He's the Barchoke to my Lichfield (or the Statler to my Waldorf when we get together to watch bad movies) so I'm sure he'll do well in whatever he does (he always does; he's amazingly good at networking for an Aspie); I just wish he didn't have to move away to work on a doctorate of philosophy. A mind like his doesn't belong in the boonies though so I hope he makes good on his plan never to return and perhaps I might join him one day.

.o0O0o.

The rules of the game seem to have changed since Dumbledore had been ousted as a player and Lucius didn't particularly like what seemed to have replaced them. He liked his rigged system, he liked writing all the rules, he liked being able to stymie any opposition by controlling what it was that people thought was possible in the first place. If the goblins refused to play – or worse, were playing their own game – then how could they be brought to heel?

Images of rampaging dragons and goblin armies had so effectively evoked the famed "goblin rebellions" of the past that even he had been taken in by it for a time. The truth of things was remarkably different. It had been the Ministry with its mishandling of the situation that had made Gringotts seem more powerful and warlike than what they really were, and so, what it was that they truly wanted had seemed completely foreign to them.

Once you stripped away what shouldn't have been there in the first place and returned to the proper mindset, everything became clear. They had taken the island and fortified it with dragons and spells for the same reason he'd had the Ministry do the same with Hogwarts and Dumbledore: the goblins wanted to negotiate so they could further their own self interests. And furthermore, they'd taken the Hit Wizards that Dolores had so cowardly left behind in order to force the Ministry to come to them.

Contrary to popular belief, difficult things weren't inherently impossible to get done; they were simply more difficult than you'd like them to be. While threats, bribes, and intimidation had their place as means to an end, they were not the only means to get to those ends. Debate, negotiation, and compromise were messier methods to employ since they strayed from the ideological purity that gave surety of purpose, but it's what had to be done from time to time. They could always take back what they'd been forced to trade away later on.

The move and counter-move of informal negotiations like this – the pre-negotiation negotiations, if you will – was a time full of subtleties, feints, and supposed mistakes made to seem like weaknesses the other side could exploit, when in reality it was all there to set up something else entirely. At least that's the way Lucius had envisioned this time as being; the reality was again somewhat different. He didn't know if it was the Auror siege of the bank that'd prompted this but something had changed on the goblin side of things so that rather than dealing with the Ministry directly they had gone through the press, and the press was eating it up.

_'__Nothing boosts sales like conflict,_' their editor had said when he had paid the man a polite social call to under the guise of looking up on the surprising pro-goblin tone and what that might mean for investors. _'And nothing boosts the _Prophet's_ profits like our staying out of the fight while showing both sides. We're not referees at a Quidditch match, Mr. Malfoy. We're the announcers, here to broadcast the play-by-play to the people at home. If you want referees, get those international types to do it._'

As far as referees went though the I.C.W. was far from his first choice since everything he'd learned of them since Dumbledore's fall had made him like the organization less and less. Hundreds of years ago they may have had a properly wizarding-centric view of the world but while the wizards of Britain had cloistered themselves away and preferred to look inward towards their own affairs and properly oppress those who were different than them, many of the "internationals" had embraced what they called 'a culture of inclusion, cooperation, and equality.'

It was a distasteful and inelegant way of looking at the world that he certainly didn't want imported into this country. Where was their wizarding pride? That so-called Dark Lord that still haunted the world may have been insane when it came to needing absolute control over every aspect of what they were doing and killing purebloods who disagreed with him, but at least he saw the need to keep themselves apart from such degrading influences for the sake of society.

What kind of civilization would they be if they recognized creatures like wood nymphs, veela, and trolls as part of a wider 'magical public'? It would be the end of everything. Their traditions and great wizarding institutions would collapse and they'd be overrun by a writhing swarm of filth. While it may be just as unrefined to openly espouse getting rid of them entirely, and such sentiment only serve to let them linger on so that a final solution would need to be reached at some point, keeping that filth under your boot was better than nothing for the time being.

To get these goblins back into their proper place though would require forcing them to go through the Ministry, where the proper way of viewing things held sway, rather than the I.C.W. To do that meant undermining the perceived value of what they hoped to gain, a difficult enough proposition when they were free to evaluate it on their own, or to undercut the strength of their position in claiming the island in the first place. But while the Ministry unequivocally rejected the validity of their supposed ownership agreement, unless they found a way to make the goblins come to them then their denials accomplished nothing.

"Are you sure that your man can do this?" Mockridge asked, as if any of his ideas on how to handle the situation in the last week had had any results. "No offense, Mr. Malfoy, I'm glad that you've stepped forward to help, but we don't even know this man. How could he get the goblins to drop this when we can't?"

Lucius tried not to sigh but he was beginning to think that he'd been cursed to have to deal with the most short-sighted people imaginable. The thought was far too hopeful though since if it was a curse then he could remove it; removing such people though was much more problematic when they otherwise served their function reasonably well and didn't have to constantly be monitored. He'd had few dealings with the man before this since his vote had been so reliable and the affairs of goblins were beneath notice but while Mockridge might be competent enough to serve in some other capacity he'd certainly failed in the realm of goblin intermediaries.

"If you're looking to me to detail who this person is and what they're attempting to do then you're going to be disappointed," Lucius said from the Minister's other visitor's chair.

"Oh, I'm sure that he didn't mean anything by that," Cornelius was quick to interject. "The last thing we want is to give those blood-thirsty goblins someone else to take hostage. I think he was just wanting to know a bit more about what they hoped to accomplish in a – a little less general way," the Minister said in that way he had when he had no idea what was going on.

"It's called wielding influence," he said with a patronizing smile to Mockridge. "While the long-term goal is to separate the goblins from anything that's on the island – and I'll leave that to the best minds of the Ministry to determine how best to do that," he lied. "What my contact is attempting to do is to get the goblins to change the conversation."

"What conversation?" the laboriously dull-witted though suitably pure-blooded Mockridge asked. "They haven't been talking to us; they've been talking to the _Prophet_."

"And to the public," Lucius interjected. "Going through the _Prophet_ put their story into every wizarding home in the country, and whatever we may think of them that was a clever move to make," he said grudgingly, disliking the taste of that unfortunate reality. "We saw how well that worked in raising Diagon Alley against us."

"Well then, why don't we do that?" the Minister asked eagerly.

"But Minister," Mockridge said, "How do we get the shopkeepers to turn against the bank when they've just publicly turned against us? Surely we wouldn't be able to persuade them to do anything, and trying would only make us look worse."

That glimmer of insight made Lucius reevaluate the man; perhaps he wasn't so hopeless after all.

"What made the shopkeepers such a powerful voice was the fact that it came from an unexpected and sympathetic source," he said as if to a child, "the innocent victims of the Ministry's blunder whose livelihood was now threatened by our continued mishandling of the situation. Getting them to go after Gringotts now would be too big of a precedent though; the last thing we need is to give them a political platform. We do happen to have a similar group of victims near at hand though: the families of the Hit Wizards themselves."

"But we can't use them, can we?" Cornelius asked. "Merlin knows what they'd say. It's been all we can do to keep them quiet."

"–To allay their fears while the Ministry uses the best methods we have to get their loved ones back from the goblins," Lucius selectively rephrased matters. "If, however, we were to tell them now that we believed that the best way to get their loved ones to come home would be to tell the stories of the hardships they've endured during this past week – how they've missed their fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons and what great people they were – and how they cried over the thought of never seeing them again…"

"The public would turn against the goblins in a heartbeat," Mockridge said sounding suitably amazed at the prospect of things ending so well for them. "There may well be riots against the bank. If there's one thing that could show the I.C.W. that the goblins weren't to be trusted and to bring commerce back to Diagon Alley at the same time, it's a good two or three day long anti-goblin demonstration down there."

"I like the sound of that," the Minister said.

"And normally I would agree," Lucius added. "Let's not forget the last time Diagon Alley had such a disturbance though. One lone lunatic deciding to go off on their own and things could spiral so far out of control that we may well have a real goblin war on our hands at best. At worst… If that dragon is still in their lobby, I'd hate to see what the _Prophet_ made of things the day after."

Silence greeted that revelation. Mockridge looked uncertain; the Minister, sick.

"I've instructed my contact to bring this potential public turn against them to the goblins' attention," Lucius said after a moment. "He will likewise suggest that the wisest course for them to take would be to release the hostages before the _Prophet_ gets the idea to go chasing after their personal stories."

"Yes," Mockridge nodded. "It really is the only way out for them, isn't it? No doubt they'd think that we'd take it as a sign of good faith so that we could then move on with all the other issues," the man added.

"Do you really think that it'll work?" Cornelius asked, desperately trying not to look desperate.

"There are no guarantees, of course," Lucius acknowledged with a dismissive gesture, "but I really see no alternative. Either the goblins will have to capitulate or they'll have day after day of bad press while the Ministry works with the I.C.W. and tries to sway them to our side."

"What do we have left to work with the I.C.W. on?" Mockridge asked, not privy to the deeper secrets of the Ministry's affairs. "I thought they'd already agreed that Dumbledore was ours to prosecute."

"They're letting us deal with Harry Potter's case against him, but if they think they're getting him after that then they're gravely mistaken," the Minister said like a well-trained lap dog without the slightest bit of prompting. "I'll use every way I have to keep him here. Dumbledore is ours to deal with."

"Here here," Lucius agreed, tapping his cane as if it were the Chief Warlock's gavel in a show of support. "To get that agreement though we had to guarantee them the opportunity to interview Dumbledore, the rest of the Hogwarts staff, and permission to search the castle and grounds," he informed Mockridge.

"What they hope to achieve is beyond me," he went on to say. "It's not like Dumbledore would be foolish enough to do any illegal activities there when any child could stumble across them. The other Governors and I have placed an inordinate amount of trust in the man through the years though so Merlin knows what he's gotten up to."

"Not even Dumbledore would put children at risk, surely," Mockridge said though the look on his face said that he wasn't too sure about it at all.

"It would take a truly unscrupulous person to do that," Lucius agreed.

A series of quick knocks cut off that line of conversation as the Minister's door opened and they turned to see his unremarkable secretary scoot into the office.

"Sorry to disturb you, Minister," she said with all the deference of one of the squib maids that he'd been thinking of hiring to look after his household. Narcissa had very particular views on who she thought was fit to serve her but he wasn't about to dole out enough money to retain such a person; she'd accept her squib and be happy about it or she'd have nothing at all. "There's a Dirk Cresswell, of the Goblin Liaison Office, here to see Mr. Mockridge."

"Sorry for interrupting," the blade-thin Dirk said as he sliced his way into the office. "This just came from Gringotts," he announced as he presented Mockridge a letter. "They said that they'd issued the same directly to the _Daily Prophet,_ so I knew you'd want to see it straight away."

"Thank you, Cresswell," the other man said with a dismissive wave as he began to read. "You may go."

Cornelius's secretary showed the man out with a look that could curdle milk.

Lucius wanted to snatch the letter out of the man's hands and read it first. He was far more important than he was and infinitely more involved in the Ministry's affairs to be passed over like this but far too refined to lash out in such an undignified way. If the man was too blind to see that he should have been given it to him in the first place then something would have to be done to properly impress upon the man exactly how far below him he was.

"Well!" the Minister said happily, "It looks like your man was very quick."

"Your man has failed," Mockridge announced. "And worse, the only thing he succeeded in doing is having the goblins become more entrenched in their positions," the man moved to hand the dispatch to Cornelius but Lucius got there first. "We were better off the way we were before."

_'__With the cessation of investigatory activities on the Isle of Gringotts by the International Confederation of Wizards,_' the dispatch read in the goblins' natural legalistic jargon, _'the Goblin Nation is pleased to announce the formation of the–_'

"Impossible," Lucius said as his mind reeled from the goblins overturning the game board on him once again. "They can't possibly think that the Wizengamot will allow them to do that. The very idea is preposterous."

"The whole thing is preposterous," Mockridge agreed. "It's like every goblin in the country has suddenly gone mad."

"Wha – What's going on?" Cornelius asked completely at a loss.

Mockridge informed the Minister of what happened while Lucius read on, finally hitting on a change in the goblins' demands regarding their Hit Wizard hostages. That got him to thinking. It was a substantial change from what they've been demanding for the past week, and one that was a much more reasonable demand to make under the circumstances, though one the Ministry wouldn't like making. No wonder Mockridge was trying to kill it in its crib.

"Agreed, the goblin announcement is completely unacceptable," he said to something that the Minister blathered on about. "But we can't overlook the opening that they've given us."

"Yes," the Minister cried with one of those stupid table pounds that he'd taken a liking to. "If there's one thing that'll rile up the people against them it's this. Combined with getting the _Prophet_ to do stories on those families we'll–"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Lucius cut in. "It seems that different stories will be hitting the _Prophet_ soon, if my guess is correct."

"What do you mean?" Cornelius asked.

"He means that his plan was a spectacular failure," Mockridge interjected. "By telling them what we were going to do, it allowed them to think of a way around it. Their demands are as ridiculous as ever for their release but now they'll be allowing the families to visit their hostages until we give in. They're trying to turn the entire wizarding public against us."

"Not against us," Lucius corrected, "against you."

"Against him?" the Minister asked. "What do they have against him?"

"He's the head of the Goblin Liaison Office," he reminded the Minister. "Regulating the goblins is his job; naturally they blame him for everything that's wrong with their lives. That's why they're demanding that he resign," Lucius said as he handed over the dispatch to Cornelius.

"As I said, Minister, it's lunacy," Mockridge scoffed.

"It's not lunacy," he countered, "it's negotiation. What other language do goblins know besides transactions? It's clear that someone over at Gringotts is being very clever about it."

"How?" the man in the other chair asked. "They know that they won't get anything they want."

"And believe it or not, that's precisely what they're after," Lucius informed him; it really was a very clever plan when he thought of it. There must be a race-traitoring human over there advising them; Marsh would know who it is. "As hard as it may be for us to believe, dismissing everything that the goblins say they want is precisely what they want us to do because it makes them seem to be the calm and rational ones in this.

"Take a look at what that press release actually says," he instructed the Minister. "They start off by slipping in the fact that the I.C.W. is finished with Flamel's Island with no mention of the Stone whatsoever – which is the reason the I.C.W. is here in the first place. They then make that ridiculous announcement about what their plans are for the island, plans that most of the wizarding public won't think twice about."

"But we can't have goblins–"

"Of course we can't," Lucius said with a dismissive wave. "You know we can't, I know we can't, anyone with any sense within the Ministry knows we can't, but the rest of the wizarding public won't see why it's important to keep them from doing it. The goblins actually want us to fight them on this and forget about the Hit Wizard issue; that's why they've softened their stance on it.

"If the Ministry charges off and fights them on that issue then we will be the one facing day after day of the _Prophet_ running stories against them," he explained to the man. "I'm sure that by now the goblins are already arranging for the prisoners to impress upon their families how well they've been treated, and those families will repeat that to the _Prophet_ along with how they loved seeing their loved ones again, and how unfortunate it is that the bad old Ministry is prolonging things by refusing to speak with the goblins."

"They are the ones who're refusing to speak to us by insisting on these ridiculous demands," Mockridge insisted.

"The truth is irrelevant," Lucius said, "what we're talking about is what people will believe. And their demands are not that ridiculous and present us with opportunities of their own."

"You're not suggesting that we fire Mockridge, are you?" Cornelius asked. "Who would be in charge of the goblins?"

"With the goblins running amok, can you really say that Mockridge has been in charge of anything lately?" he countered. "When the Wizengamot meets again you'll have to have someone to blame, so why not him? And let us not forget that he's the one that's responsible for the goblins getting the jump on us. Had he not advised that you wait until Monday to release a statement about what happened on Flamel's Island then this would have been a very different week."

"That's absolutely right," the Minister agreed pointing at Mockridge. "All of this is your fault."

"Umbridge was the one responsible for all that," Mockridge declared, which only compounded his mistake by blaming the person who was actually at fault. "She was the one that failed on the island, she ordered the attack on the bank, she's the one that's made the goblins such a pain to deal with, not me. Fire her."

Part of Lucius desperately wanted to laugh at the man's impotent attempt to save his job. Trying to fight perception with the truth? That was a child's tactic and no one above the age of seven would try that unless their name was Draco. Didn't the man know that to blame Umbridge for what she was responsible for was to force the Minister to have to take responsibility for sending her there in the first place? True, it had been Lucius's idea to send her, but politically it was still Cornelius's fault for listening to him.

The Minister looked over to him for what he should do.

"Come now, Mockridge, do try to face things with a little dignity; it's not personal," he said disdainfully. "The goblins want her to go as well but you know that a Senior Undersecretary is far too close of a position to the Minister to allow the goblins to dictate who comes or goes from it. If anyone is to resign though they should do so for reasons the Ministry says they should, and right now the Minister has said that you've handled the goblin situation badly."

"Absolutely," Cornelius said obediently. "I'm sorry, Mockridge, but you've got to go. But as Lucius said, it's not personal, it's politics."

The condemned man looked at the Minister as if he'd been Confunded and unable to recall his own name.

"Mr. Mockridge has served the Ministry for many years though, Minister, so perhaps not placing all the blame for the goblin affair on him would be more appropriate," Lucius said, deciding to be magnanimous to the man now that it suited his long term goals as the man himself looked from the Minister to him and back as if just now piecing together where true power lied within the Ministry of Magic. "We can't let the goblins think that they're getting their way, even when we're giving them what they want."

"Most certainly not," Cornelius said, "but what would you suggest?"

"I'd suggest that Mr. Mockridge come down with a previously undisclosed health concern," he said simply with a falsely apologetic look to the man in question. "To be sure, he will have suffered from this for quite some time but it has never made his work suffer… until now. With the intensity of the goblin issue, and with it dragging on for so long, Mr. Mockridge has tried to suffer through it but – alas – now he's forced to conclude that the Ministry needs someone who can devote their full time and effort into making matters right with the goblins and get our boys back home."

"I don't have a health concern and no one who knows me will believe that," Mockridge protested.

"We're not discussing what people will believe; we're talking about what they would prefer to think," Lucius said. "Your family will know we're lying but should have the good sense to stay quiet about it when you tell them to since it saves your reputation; the same goes for your friends and others who know you. The goblins will believe that we're lying in order to placate their demands without giving them credit, and some of the public will as well, but neither will know enough to say for sure one way or the other."

"Yes, well," the Minister dithered, "as long as it gets us one step closer to getting the situation under control what does it matter what people think?"

"But what about Dolores?" Mockridge asked. "We won't be getting anything under control as long as they're calling for her resignation too."

"You just work on your resignation," Lucius told the man with a smile. "I'm sure the Minister has something very special in mind for Dolores Umbridge. We can't let the goblins have everything they want, now can we?"

.o0O0o.

Shifting around on the hard bench seat of the booth, Lester had to conclude that he had a really bony butt. It was either that or becoming an old man had wasted away all of the cushion he'd stored up back there and he'd never noticed, and, looking around, all the other old people in the bar didn't seem to be having the same problem. Luckily he didn't have to wait long before the harpy he'd come to see came swooping down on him.

"You're late," Rita said as she scooted along into her own bench on her well-padded behind, the ash of her arrival still lingering on her shoulders.

"Says the woman who just got here," Lichfield replied.

"Yes, well, I'm late too," she admitted as she dug into her crocodile-skinned handbag for her quill. "That woman does love to hear herself talk doesn't she? I swear it's like she thinks she's Merlin's gift to motherhood. The way you're sitting though says nervous anticipation, which means you haven't been waiting long, and you should've been here an hour ago."

"You can't judge anything by the way I sit; I've got a bony butt," Lester said, drawing a peculiar look from the cantankerous woman. "Besides, you have any idea how long it takes for an owl to get from London to Norwich?" he asked with a look.

"No, and I don't care," Rita said with a smile as she put her quill to parchment. "Now, tell me all about these Dirtleys."

"How did you find out about them?" Lichfield asked instead.

"Oh, no, that's not how this works, remember?" she said with a predatory smile. "You give me information – truthful, scandalous, untwisted information – and I write the stories I see fit to tell from it, without any additional twisting to make it sell."

"And you stay away from the boy, remember?"

"I haven't gone anywhere near him," Rita said with a look that was so falsely innocent that she'd be sent to Azkaban to be Sirius Black's cellmate and bed-warmer just for looking guilty. "Not yet, that is. But you've been holding out on me; you promised me the true story of Harry Potter. What's to stop me from getting this information from him if you won't hold up your end?"

"Only the fact that you'd be in violation of our agreement," he retorted.

"Correction, we'd _both_ be in violation," she said with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Me for contacting the boy at that hidey hole you've got him renting a room at and you for not being forthcoming, which would be worse you, I think. I would just be stuck writing my stories as I've always been; you, however, would be magically bound to tell me everything my little heart desired. Merlin knows what kind of Potter-related dirt I could get out of you then."

"It would take more than a little evasiveness to get that pushed though," Lester replied.

"More, perhaps," Rita agreed, "but not too much more. Now, tell me about these Dirtleys."

"The Dursleys," he corrected her. "And boy's story doesn't begin or end with the Dursleys. It's so much bigger–"

"–And I'm sure we'll get around to all of it," she said with a dismissive wave, determined not to give him an inch. "I'm on a deadline today, and I've still got these Durts–?"

"–Dursleys."

"–Dursleys to nab a picture of, but I've got all next week of front-page news to make with the goodies you'll be giving me, I just know it," Rita said with a feral grin. "Now no more stalling. Tell me about the Dursleys or I go traipsing off to the D.M.L.E.'s Contract Enforcement Office."

It was a foul-tasting tincture to take but one that had to be swallowed. It was one thing to know that the story would be coming out and another thing entirely for it to come out like this. Still, he supposed he could see some upside in this. After all, what was the most natural follow-up to getting people riled up about the Dursleys than to reveal that Dumbledore was the one to put him there?

Still, how Rita knew what she knew was troubling. The woman had made her living uncovering scandals long before he'd come along though and you don't do that without being able to find out what other people wanted to keep quiet. In the end, he didn't suppose it mattered how she found out; it was going to come out anyway because the Ministry leaked like a sieve. For all he knew she could've gotten it from Amelia Bones herself.

"I first met the Dursleys at the tail end of – '76, I think it was," Lester said finally as Rita's blue quill skated across the parchment. "Petunia, Harry's aunt, was still an Evans at the time…"

.o0O0o.

The warm summer sun had cooled a bit as the day lengthened on, helped out, a bit, by the gentle breeze blowing over the lake to reach them in the shade of the gazebo. He'd chosen to meet Marsh outside on the manor grounds rather than in his home because he hadn't wanted to display its disorderliness to the other man. Strangely, people seemed to take a walk on the grounds to denote a deeper connection than actually being accepted into their home but he was glad to make use of the misconception.

It was unfortunate that being so far removed from the house also removed them from any refreshment though for Lucius could certainly use a glass of wine right about now. Even that young batch of elf-made wine would do but he wasn't about to Summon it himself. It'd be a breach of proper protocol to do so in another's company, and then Marsh might want some too and the man had failed and thus deserved no such courtesy from him. It was remarkable to think how much more comfortable having a filthy little creature like a house-elf wait on you could make your life but at least he was adjusting well enough.

Narcissa and Draco were nearly identical in their haughty attitude at losing the thing and far be it for them to ever consider ever doing anything for themselves. Both seemed to be determined to take a stand on similarly ridiculous notions of what he should do for them as a penance, as if they were in any position to demand anything from him. Still, if Narcissa thought that she'd get her delicate little maid or Draco thought he'd get an entire fleet of new brooms then they were gravely mistaken.

If there was one witch that he'd consider capitulating to Narcissa's demands with it would have been her late aunt. She'd been said to have an almost hag-like personality and would've been sure to serve as a constant irritation to both her and Draco. Then again, with tendencies like that they likely would've assaulted him together, so perhaps it was best that she was dead or he may have been forced to kill her.

Still, living with a half-hag half-harpy haranguing him in his own house may have been better than the prospect he was facing: a new player on the scene in the form of a goblin with delusions of grandeur. And it was worse since it seemed to have a mind of its own. Marsh had went so far as to say that until recently this Barchoke character hadn't even been worth noticing and was without influential friends of which to report, which was astonishing considering that he was supposedly in charge of supervising the bank's Hereditary accounts so he should have at least heard about him before if that was the case.

With wizards such a precipitous rise was unheard of but it seemed to be common place with the goblins. They had no reverence for bloodlines or continuity at all, according to Marsh, though that man's lineage was scarcely four hundred years old, which was nothing compared to the Malfoys' nine hundred and twenty six year history. He had every hope to live to see it but whether he did or not, a millennium of Malfoy would give rise to a Malfoy Millennium, a thousand years of wizarding history capped off with a thousand year reign of the perfect pureblood society, with their family firmly in control.

Lucius certainly wasn't about to let some grubby little banker stand in his way or attempt to rip the country apart before he had a chance to properly rule anything. Still, with everything that goblin's done to shake up the established order that he's worked so hard to arrange to his liking, it'd be easier to believe that this sort of change had come about from some influence that he wasn't yet aware of. Not even the most unTraditionalist of families would further the goblin cause though – or would they?

He seemed to have some vague memory of someone once attempting to sway the goblins to the Ministry's side during the war by gifting them a small house on a tract of land somewhere near… Nottingham, Lucius thought. He'd have to have his friends in the Wizengamot look into it and the legalities around such a thing because the two circumstances were too similar to ignore. There was no so-called Dark Lord to take care of the issue this time around though and the spells the I.C.W. and the bank had placed upon the island kept the Ministry from even finding it.

Still, as murky as those issues were they paled in comparison to chaotic nature of the goblin way of running a bank. They'd always been described as 'beings of near-human intelligence' and from what Marsh said of the sudden changes being made there that description was too flattering by half. What the man described was more like energetic children making things up as they went along and lighting the rulebook on fire just to see the pretty flames glow.

Lucius had never cared for children or their childish games even when he was one, but even he knew that you couldn't win a game where the rules were constantly being rewritten. To combat what was happening though he had to know what was going on, and to even do that he had to ask what may be the most repulsive question he could think of.

"So what precisely does that mean?"

"It means that I've essentially been demoted," Marsh grumbled. "They've stripped almost all of the Overseers' powers away, renamed the position, created a new position above it and called _that_ an Overseer, only to then appoint themselves to fill those positions. I'm nothing but an – a _taskmaster_ now. Taskmaster Marsh, it's insulting, but I should have expected as much from him."

"But what does that mean for your position?" Lucius clarified. "You won't have one of those goblins looking over your shoulder and riffling through your things, will you? How at risk is the Hogwarts Board of Governors at having their privacy and control wrenched away like they had threatened to do?"

"That is yet to be seen," the man said petulantly. "I overheard Bankor – the mousy one that's always dealt with the Ministry – describe it as a change in 'governmental structure' more than bank management but suffice it to say that I'll be watched. The new 'Grand Overseer' even went so far as to send his bully-boy, Gutripper, to say so explicitly when he took that barbaric ceremonial knife from me – not that they've ever done anyone any good.

"As it is, I think they're relishing the opportunity to hold that dagger above my head and make me squirm, wondering when it's going to fall," Marsh sneered. "The only bright spot I see – and I mean the only one in a sea of black – is that if they truly are seeing this as a governmental shift rather than managerial one then the relative autonomy of me and my department should still be intact – provided that I don't do anything they dislike, of course."

He had always thought that the phrase 'goblin nation' was a coy little fig leaf that the Ministry used to continue to dismiss the goblins' call for closer ties and representation. It had long been the Ministry's policy to keep the goblins within the bounds of their bank and to tell them that they had to take care of themselves on their own, and naturally the goblins had always resented it. Now this new goblin had overturned everything by taking them at their word and forcing them to contend with the full implications of it.

Lucius bid the man to walk small, stay safe, and to leave the goblins to him before sending Marsh on his way and turning to make the solitary journey through the gardens and back up to the house. Yes, what Lucius had found himself in was a very different game than the one he'd played against Dumbledore. This was a drastic, dramatic, aggressive game full of surprise movements and quick changes that actually had him missing the refined ruses, subtle subversions, and tenuous turns of the old way.

Against such a bizarre and unique player though what was he to do? Surely the creature wouldn't be so foolish as to be caught out in public when it could stay safely ensconced in its bank with its guards all around it. The rough and simplistic moves made him wonder what it was that the goblin really wanted, or if what it wanted was really what it said it wanted in the first place.

_'__If it is, at this rate they'll declare themselves a sovereign and independent country sometime next week and magically move the entire bank onto that island,_' Lucius thought to himself. _'One thing is clear,_' he mused as he tried to take the long view of things again. _'As loathsome as they are, we cannot allow them to go off on their own._

_'__If we do, who'd be next? Would Diagon Alley declare themselves independent and shut themselves off from the Ministry? Would Hogsmeade, despite the fact that their allegiance is supposed to be to Hogwarts itself? Magical society would shatter apart,_' he concluded.

That prospect left him with only one real move he could make. What he'd done with Mockridge had been a necessary first step; it was a sign of progress being made so that the other side wouldn't retreat from the game entirely and take everything they had with them. The bit with Umbridge may prove equally useful, given time.

In order to start countering the goblins' influence though something more had to be done; as much as Lucius had grown to detest the organization, he'd have to turn the I.C.W. to their cause. And further, though he hated having to become involved, Dumbledore's decline had left behind a hole for someone to fill, and as he'd become so painfully aware, the only person he could rely upon to do things with the proper delicacy was himself. At least it would get him out of the house for a few hours.

.o0O0o.

She tried to tell herself that the last trip she'd taken to muggle lands had prepared her for this but the truth was that it really hadn't. Everything was the same as everything else; each house was nearly identical. Any oddity that gave so much as a hint as to what might be going on inside – the newspaper that'd been left on the lawn, the stray toy that'd been left out by a child, or the dog that peeked over the back fence – seemed to shout, "Look at me, please! I'm different from everybody else!" only to then shrink back and cowardly whisper, "But I'm not _too_ different. I still want people to like me."

How could anyone ever be comfortable enough with that eerie similarity to call this place a home? Was it just a muggle thing that wizards lacked that let them live together in such large groups? Her father was a muggleborn and it'd never occurred to her until then that he would've been brought up surrounded by it. He'd always said that it was odd to live in the middle of nowhere with no one else around but he'd always used a more colorful phrase referencing Egypt for it.

Either way, 'My-name-is-not-Pinky' Tonks may have wanted friends when she was younger but she was glad not to have been brought up here. The sheer madness-inducing feel of people being so close that they could be watching you from any window probably would have made her as paranoid as Mad-Eye had been before his quiet retirement. True, the official reason was a personally requested transfer rather than a forced retirement due to age but she wouldn't rule out him being stuck in a special room at Saint Mungo's until she'd checked every one of them herself, especially after being dressed down by the head of her department for doing less than her best.

Unfortunately for her, her best seemed to be in short supply for this mission. If the Ministry'd had a sense of humor she would've said that it seemed the punishment for knowing too much was to put you in a position where you knew too little but that'd be giving them too much credit. For that to happen they'd have to have to have more knowledgeable and experienced aurors hiding nearby just in case she ran into trouble, and they were busy on all the work they'd been letting pile up for the last week when they'd had to deal with the goblin situation.

If the Ministry had sent her there to attack, rescue, or apprehend a witch or wizard then things would be very different but very little of what she'd been exposed to had prepared her to do something like this. She'd said that those people would be torn apart but she hadn't expected to be the one assigned to make sure that didn't happen. How were you supposed to protect muggles from pissed off people who could do magic?

Every one of the procedures she'd been taught to do during her short time as an auror seemed to have two or three big reasons why it'd be either ineffective or in some way harmful to what her task was while trying to reverse everything and apply it to keep someone safe wasn't working at all. Finally she had to conclude that the simplest solution was probably the best that she'd be able to come up with and surrounded number four with charms that'd let her know if anyone magical showed up. It'd require her to be close enough to immediately respond if she was ever alerted to something but that shouldn't be too hard.

Unfortunately the eerie normalcy of the muggle world seemed to be legally enforced, and they'd taken less kindly to strangers this time around. Twice a man in a white carriage with a red stripe and blue flashy lights on top had stopped her to ask what she was doing in the area and seemed to find it odd when she'd told him truthfully that she was just walking around. Obliviating him to forget her hadn't worked since he only came back a few minutes later to ask the same questions so eventually she Confunded him to make something up so that he'd believe everything was fine and then put a Muggle-Repelling Charm on herself.

It still seemed a prudent idea to wander about and familiarize herself with the area because the last thing she'd wanted to do was knock on the door and tell people who already had reason not to like her that she was inviting herself in for their protection. The situation went from bad to worse though when she found herself one of those long street lengths away from the house when alarm bells went off in her head and she had to scramble back there as fast as she could.

The house came into sight just in time for her to see the tiny troll of a man join his wife as she confronted a green-clothed witch and a camera-carrying wizard on their doorstep. Time seemed to slow down as the puce-faced man got very belligerent and threateningly raised a long metal pipe with a wooden handle and she knew that if that was some kind of muggle wand then things could get very bad indeed. It was the perfect ending to the perfect day as everything went bad at once.

The camera flashed, she screamed a spell, something exploded out of the muggle wand, the man roared, and a woman screamed.

"Expecto nuntium!" Tonks cried as ran towards them, for once not caring that it was a shaggy sheepdog that shot out of her wand to trot beside her. "Auror Dispatch: Send mediwizard and back up to Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," she told the dog, "and hurry!"

.o0O0o.

Mrs. Weasley had been acting strangely all day. She had seemed preoccupied during breakfast, had dressed up around lunch, had disappeared for hours after Amelia Bones had left, had fumed and furiously cleaned her already spotless house in a way that made everyone think it was best to leave her alone when she'd returned, and even once she'd calmed down and dressed normally again she'd break off whatever she was doing to come over and give him a hug, tell him that he was a good boy, or how good it was to have him here whenever he happened to wander through.

Harry didn't know what to think but thankfully she stopped when Fred reminded her that he already had a girlfriend because it was definitely getting weird. After that she returned to making dinner while Dobby went around the living room moving things around slightly. Ginny took Luna to her room while Harry started reviewing the next section of the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 that Hermione would want to go over tomorrow and the twins worked to vent Ron's Quidditch frustration with a game of Exploding Snap.

After the raucous first game he skipped out on studying to join them and after the second game came chess. The twins' pawns were a lot more paranoid about being sacrificed though which made for an interesting game when he tried to use them himself. After holding his own for quite a while Harry managed to stumble his way into a losing strategy, much to the disappointment of his army, though they did say that they'd been through worse.

The sun was dropping lower in the sky when studying came back into play. Ron had finally seemed to notice how soon they'd be back at Hogwarts – only about ten days away – so Harry felt no guilt at all about pointing out roughly where he'd gotten his answers from. It was hardly cheating in his opinion since he was only pointing out a page in the book though there seemed to be silent agreement not to mention it just in case.

It was actually dark and dinner was being laid out by the time a weary Mr. Weasley made his way home. Though he always had a smile for everyone – or at least tried to – he particularly brightened when he saw his wife.

"So?" he prompted cheerily as Harry and Ron put their books away. "How'd it go?"

"I'll tell you about it later," Mrs. Weasley said darkly as she brought out the silverware, "but as far as bad things go it went alright, I think."

"Well that's… good, I guess," Mr. Weasley said uncertainly.

"Boys," she said turning to them, "be dears and tell the others that supper's ready, will you? It looks like we may have to start without Bill again."

"It had to be Great-Aunt Muriel," Ron said as they had trudged upstairs. "Dad's always tried to get Mum to get on better with her, but the woman's awful. We used to have to spend every Christmas with her. The best thing Fred and George's ever done was set off a dungbomb under her chair because we haven't been back since," he smiled.

"Does she go over there often?" Harry asked as they hit his room to stow their books, curious about this unpleasant Weasley relative.

"No, that's the weird thing," Ron said with a furrowed brow. "I don't see why she would unless – Oh," he finished quickly, the tips of his ears going pink.

"What?"

"Great-Aunt Muriel's got money," he said as if embarrassed about it. "But she's always been really stingy about it and never let us forget it. Mum probably went over to tell her about what you did for Ginny and – Well, no matter what she said she would've had some really not nice things to say about it. Probably blamed Mum for needing it in the first place."

"That's awful," Harry agreed.

"That's Great-Aunt Muriel."

.o0O0o.

The Saturday morning light poured through the window as Hermione smiled into the mirror. That Marjorie girl was right, that Sleekeazy's hair potion-shampoo combination was fantastic! Gone was the frizzy, kinky mane that'd break combs, battle brushes, and only become worse the more you fought it and in its place was something she actually liked.

It'd taken several days of careful addition to get her hair to come out exactly how she'd always wanted it – soft and smooth without being severely straight, with gentle waves and a hint of curl that could inform what she could do with it – but now that it was she couldn't imagine having to go back. She knew that she should try to restrain herself lest she become just as shallow and superficial as Lavender but it was hard when her hair looked good for the first time in her life.

_'__Lavender lets fashion and beauty define her though,_' Hermione thought as she tried to figure out where to draw the line. _'But that doesn't mean that it's inherently wrong to care about your appearance. A person should be free to cultivate their appearance so that they can express themselves and who they wish to be without being picked apart for it._'

She broke off as an image of Draco Malfoy strutting through Hogwarts like a Napoleon that'd just crowned himself flashed into her mind. There had to be a better guideline since that one would let the most arrogant and delusional people do anything in the world while being immune to criticism. But if it was acceptable to criticize others for thinking too much of themselves – and a case could be made that it should be – then where do you draw the line between valid criticism and hurtful nitpicking when what you're talking about is an external expression of an internal self-image when the perceived mismatch is comparatively small?

Rather than catty bickering based on one person's internal view of themselves and another person's criticisms of the external expression of that internal view there had to be some broader based principles and rules that governed this sort of thing. She was brought up short again though when she realized what it was that she was arguing for in the first place: the value and role of a cultural norm.

_'__But cultural norms are irrational appeals to popular opinion that have no basis in the individual freedoms inherent to everyone,_' Hermione reminded herself. _'They only serve to promote outdated modes of behavior, stifle free expression, and maintain regressive gender roles. They should be in no way binding on anyone and fighting against them is a valid way to express oneself and progress the culture forward in the right direction._

_'__Still,_' she thought to herself, _'there would be a difference between dressing in a way that fit your self-image – even when that self-image conflicted with cultural norms – and intentionally and overtly going against such norms as a political act. That kind of act would invite public evaluation and critique – indeed some would say that it required it – in order to determine if what that act proposed would indeed be helpful or hurtful for a society to normalize._

_'__And again,_' Hermione thought, going back to her original flawed proposition, _'the last thing a culture should do is normalize an immunity to criticism. No matter what the justification for it is, it stifles both the critical evaluation and the free expression of ideas that we should be upholding,_' she concluded. _'Ideas rise or fall on their own merits, not on any metric applied to the person offering those ideas, so if there is a difference between what I'm doing and what Lavender does it should be addressed on those terms and those terms alone._'

Confronted with that particular brick wall she left the mirror to find something else to occupy herself with while she thought about it. That only brought her right back to where she was when what she'd unconsciously chosen to occupy herself with was going back into her closet to see if there was something better she could wear.

_'__Oh! I hate this!'_ Hermione said to herself as she walked out of the closet refusing to consider changing what she wore. _'I may be involved with Harry now but that's no reason to throw my brain out the window and become such a… such a _girl!'

The silly face of Einstein on her wall was having a good joke at her expense, as if the governing laws of the universe were conspiring against her.

"That's not funny," she scowled at it before starting to pace back and forth across the room. "Whatever instinct is driving this," Hermione said poking herself in the forehead as if to reprimand her brain, "you get out of there right now."

A quick tap at the window signaled her deliverance from that and the arrival of the second best non-academic thing she'd gotten from the magical world – discounting Mipsy, of course, because friendship wasn't ownership. Since so much of what was going on in the magical world was chaos caused by what she and Harry did last year it'd seemed like a good idea to get a subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ for herself. Little did she expect what she saw below the fold.

_'__Isle of Gringotts Gains All-Goblin Settlement,_' the story read, to which Hermione could only reply, _'Good for them,_' as she sat at her desk. Of course her second thought was, _'Maybe if they're all on one island they'll learn that it's wrong to kill people._'

The story beside it though made her doubt if the Ministry had any intentions of ending the goblin standoff at all. The picture showed the same frog-faced lady she remembered berating the bank's management in Diagon Alley next to the headline, _'Ministry Shakeup: Dolores Umbridge, New Chief Warlock._' Flipping the paper right side up, nothing could've prepared her for what she saw.

_'__Harry Potter's Monster Muggle Relatives,_' it advertised and as explosive as the headline was the picture was worse. The angry-faced man – who could only be Harry's uncle – actually pulled out a shotgun and fired! Again and again the picture looped as she skimmed the article and of one thing Hermione became absolutely sure: she had no idea how Harry would react to this.

She picked up her school bag and was about to call for Mipsy when there was a knock on her door and her dad stuck his head inside.

"Oh! Good, I caught you," the frizzy-haired dentist said with a smile not far from laughter. "I went out for something to munch on and saw this," he said producing one of his favorite tabloids. "Didn't you say this woman was that Harry boy's aunt?"

Stunned as she was Hermione had to give them credit, as strange as the wizarding world was it was the muggle tabloid that had the most outlandish title.

_'__Goblin Lady of Surrey: Witches Shot My Husband!'_

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** Come now, Rita Skeeter may be a foul and despicable woman but did you really think that I was going to shoot her? XD She hasn't done enough to deserve that, at least not yet.

As always, thanks for reading.


	33. Just To Be Safe

.o0O0o.

Saturday, August twenty-second, nineteen ninety-two was a day that the whole world was going to change, or at least it was going to for Hugh Hobson which meant that he hadn't been able to get any sleep at all. Pacing back and forth around his dank little basement apartment he had to wonder if the entire thing that'd led him here had all been one great big gigantic colossal mistake. Being so much shorter than everyone else had always thrown off his sense of scale though so it might've been an even bigger mistake than he thought, and that wasn't comforting at all.

Sure, spending your days working nights at the Ministry alone had never been exciting, nor would it ever lead anywhere as a career, but it paid the bills and you didn't have to worry about having a boss constantly looking over your shoulder. So when you really looked at it being buried by boring and bigoted bureaucracy in the Goblin Liaison Office wasn't that bad, and that thought was scary too. He hadn't really realized just how big that humany wizardy part of him was until he'd stupidly thrown it all away, and that was unsettling in a completely different way.

All during the last week that humany side had been hounding him non-stop.

_'__Why did you do that?'_ it would say when he woke up every morning with nothing to do.

_'__Why'd you stamp that form?'_ it asked when he ate his cold frosted cereal.

_'__They played you for a fool,_' it berated him as he filled his day with television while thinking that that part of him might be right.

_'__They've forgotten all about you and now you've got no friends, no prospects, and you can't go back,_' it told him when he brushed his teeth at the end of the day with nothing to look forward to but the same empty day tomorrow. After a few days of that he had to start thinking about what he was going to do with the rest of his life because whether he'd been used or not he certainly couldn't sit around the apartment all day.

_'__Maybe I should go into computers,_' he thought later in the week when he was checking out the job listings in the paper as he ate at the diner down the street. _'Everything says they're going well and I've always been a quick study. I could always bamboozle the people there into thinking that I know what I'm doing until I figure out what I'm supposed to know,_' Hugh mused while wondering why wizards went with Confunding rather than bamboozling since bamboozling had always had a much more wizarding sound to it. _'Do they even know the word bamboozle?'_

The peace of his pancakes was interrupted by a high-pitched electronic beeping ring. Hugh looked up only to roll his eyes as the suit in the next booth pulled out a brick-sized object and seemed to think that everyone in the world simply had to hear his half-of-a-conversation that he spoke loudly into it when they weren't even interested in the first place.

_'__Blah blah Berlin,_' the suit bragged. _'Blah blah New York. Blah blah look at me, I'm talking on an overgrown walkie-talkie the size of a car battery that'll only stay charged for an hour. Aren't I _so_ special and important?'_

_'__NO!'_ Hugh wanted to yell at the man while cramming that phone down his throat. _'Can you do magic? Do you have goblin blood in your veins? Are you even aware that there are real fire-breathing dragons? What makes you so special when you're too blind to see the pint-sized pissed-off pancake-eating wizard right behind you?'_

Unable to eat, he threw some money on the table and left – only to be greeted at the curb by the sight of a flashy foreign car that no doubt belonged to the suit.

_'__Maybe I should be an executive,_' Hugh thought sourly as he walked away from the car as if getting that job would teach someone some sort of lesson. _'It'd be a boring and empty life if I bamboozle my way into being high paid do-nothing but no one would make fun of me if they thought I was important and had money. They might actually be respectful and that'd be a nice change of pace._'

Stars exploded behind his eyes and he hit the sidewalk as something hard and fluffy slammed into the back of his head and started shrieking.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he asked as he blinked his eyes clear in time to see the flapping shrieking owl finally wriggle free from its burden and fly away again. _'It'd be just my luck if someone sent me a brick in the mail,_' Hugh grumbled as he picked up the package and hurried to the nearest secluded alley.

Using the key to his apartment he cut the package's bindings to see what he'd been sent. What he saw inside almost made him drop it right then and there but instead he hid behind a dumpster before getting a better look. The vicious-looking dagger's handle felt rough in his hand but he supposed that in a thinner and tougher goblin hand it might've felt right holding it. Then again, he'd never felt all that comfortable with a wand either and the note that came with it didn't give any comfort either.

_'__Still pushing for you,_' it said and was signed simply _'Bankor._'

His mind seemed stuck in a horrifying loop.

_'__All of them are real. All of them are real. All of them are real,_' he thought as he slid down the brick wall behind him and sat with his head between his knees. The hard pommel of the dagger pressed into his forehead as the walls between all the different worlds he came from came crashing down and pushed in on him. The stink of the dumpster filled every panicked gasp so much he could taste it but even with it he couldn't seem to get any air.

The goblin world, the wizarding world, and the muggle world were all one and the same. He'd known this but it'd never felt that way until now. It'd always been so easy to think of them as these completely separate worlds that didn't have anything to do with each other. The muggle world was just this horribly overcrowded and gritty place that he lived, the wizarding world was this far off Imagination Land where nothing really mattered because it didn't effect anything in the real world, the Ministry might as well have been the moon for all it influenced anything and the goblin stuff was all even further off, like on Mars or Venus or something.

It'd been so easy at the end of the day – or night as the case may be – to come home and sit in front of the telly for an hour or two while blissfully thinking in the back of his mind that whatever had happened on the moon that day hadn't really happened at all and therefore didn't mean anything. Sure, it felt real at the time but that didn't make it _really_ real, did it? It was like some deeply engaging movie that gets your heart pounding and maybe tear up at the end but once the credits roll you just shrug it off and go home; only this wasn't a movie, this was real and the credits only came for you when you were dead.

He spent a lot of time during the next couple of days hiding under his bed. One conclusion he reached – between bouts of worrying that some gestapo squad from the Ministry was about to break down his door every time he heard a noise – was that the old ugly grandpa that'd tricked him into doing this had been right, without the goblins taking him in he was a dead man. Wizarding stupidity and blind bigotry may guide what they do but no one could be stupid forever… well, not without a lot of effort at least, and wizards were notoriously lazy.

That's why when 'it's still odd to think of him as an Overseer' Bankor had sent him another note telling him to come to the bank the next day he hadn't hesitated to bamboozle the nearest tailor into making him something respectable to wear. He was certainly hesitating now though, cowering in the cloak he wore over the suit he'd gotten because he didn't want to chance being seen in Diagon Alley. What would the wizards think if they saw him in a suit? What would the goblins think if he wore robes? The whole thing was a minefield!

_'__Come on, Hugh,_' he thought bracingly as he dawdled by the door to the Leaky Cauldron. _'You can do this._'

With another soothing breath he pulling his hood down to hide his face and kept the cloak tight around him as he quickly entered the pub hoping not to attract any notice. He didn't know if the sound inside was muffled from the hood but from what he could see from under his low-hanging cowl interest in Leaky Cauldron appeared to be dead. He hadn't had much call to come to Diagon Alley after he had graduated Hogwarts but when he had the pub was always lively, even this early in the morning.

He was just beginning to think that maybe he'd be able to get through this after all when someone called him out before he'd even left the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Flitwick," a man somewhere to his left said cheerily, obviously confused by his short height. "Breakfast?"

_'__Ah crap,_' he panicked feeling rooted to the floor. _'What does Flitwick sound like?'_ he asked himself trying to remember. _'And which Flitwick does he mean? There's like a dozen of them. Forget it, just move and say something!'_

"No, no, no time today," Hugh said as he quickly made his way through the bar and towards Diagon Alley proper. "I've got an emergency... choir practice... to get to," he finished feebly before scurrying out the back.

Berating himself for saying something too stupid to be believed he whipped out his wand and tapped the wall behind the pub. The door to the alley opened only for him to come practically face-to-groin with an auror.

_'__Ah crap!'_ he thought as he couldn't help but look up at them. _'Crap again!'_ Hugh thought as the brim of his cowl threatened to slip back and reveal his face. _'Go-go-go-go-go-go-go!'_

Skirting around the one-eyed lady he went down the alley just as fast as he could walk hoping not to hear the auror coming after him. Eyes darting all around, Hugh couldn't help but think that times must be more tense than he thought to make everyone stay away on a weekend, and it wasn't just the other wandering auror down the way that told him so. The shops should've been open but most stood dark without even an attendant inside which made the dead feeling of the Leaky Cauldron understandable.

Hiding himself in the doorway to Quality Quidditch Supplies, he checked his wristwatch and wrung his hands apprehensively. His nerves had made him a bit early, but he hadn't thought he'd be so early that the bank would still be locked up tight. Strange thing about it though was that there were no guards by the doors and there were two other aurors hanging around nearby.

_'__Were things really as bad as the old grandpa said? Had something happened to make the goblins retreat inside? And how the heck am I supposed to get in there?'_ Hugh thought, glancing at the aurors stationed to the left and right of the building. _'I'm sure that going up and knocking in front of those two won't look suspicious at all,_' he thought derisively. _'I might as well carry a sign saying "Goblin Collaborator, Arrest Me Please._"'

Standing there trying to look through the windows of the upper levels of the bank just to see if anyone was in there wasn't getting him anywhere at all so he supposed that he really didn't have a choice. As if on cue one of the bank's large doors opened slightly and a goblin's head poked out to survey what was going on. Was this it? Were they looking for him? Should he go out there now and make a run for it?

Hugh eyed the aurors ahead of him and glanced behind to see that the aurors there were still milling about; one of them was meandering his way so he had to do something soon or him standing here and not doing anything would end up getting him in trouble. When he looked back to the bank the goblin was now hesitantly inching his way down the stairs carrying one of their big ledger books while shooting glances at the aurors himself. Once he got to a funny semicircular stage they had ringing the stairs the goblin stamped his foot and a small plinth shot up for him to set it on.

With no other choice available he tugged his cloak around him and walked right up to the teller. Hugh caught a fleeting glimpse of disdain as if the goblin had just stepped in something squishy and even though it was quickly suppressed it made him have his doubts. Maybe he couldn't go through with this. He could bamboozle his way into a new life somewhere, right? If he was lucky it might take the Ministry a year or so to find him once they started looking.

"Name?" the goblin above him asked tersely making his mind go blank. What was his name?

"H-Hobson. Hugh Hobson," he answered before he immediately wanted to kick himself.

_'__That's just great, Hugh,_' he groused to himself as he fought against the urge to look at the aurors again. _'Go ahead and tell them your real name why don't you, what's the worst that can happen? It's not like those aurors could be listening. It's not like the Supersensory Charm exists or anything. Geez, and I call wizards stupid, must be in the blood. Just ask this guy how to get inside already._'

"I'm here to–"

"Yes, I see you right here, Mister Hobson," the teller cut in. "What are you depositing today?"

"Er – what?" Hugh asked curiously. "No, I need to–"

"–Transfer funds to a different account?" the goblin quickly cut in again.

"What? No," he said, wondering why the goblin wouldn't let him get a simple word in edgewise.

"I'm sorry but we're only doing deposits and transfers at this time, and that's only for one brief period every hour until the current situation changes," the teller said meaningfully before his eyes darted to one of the aurors. "If you're not making a deposit or transfer..."

"Yes, deposit!" he agreed quickly, catching wind that something crafty had to be going on here. "I thought you said something else."

Hugh could feel the eyes of the aurors upon him as he patted his pockets for anything he could find. There was the dagger Bankor had sent but he was pretty sure he'd said that you were supposed to hang onto that until the promise had been met or broken. Was this it? And what would the aurors make of that? That'd probably get reported back to someone at the Ministry. In the end he managed to scrape up a galleon, a handful of sickles, and a wad of muggle money; surely that'd count for something.

The teller took it and although he couldn't see what he was doing on the other side of the plinth it certainly sounded like he somehow opened the thing up and dropped it inside before closing it again and making a note in the ledger. Hugh looked up at the goblin expectantly though not really knowing what to expect and was more anticipatory than disappointed when the teller handed him a thin, narrow slip of parchment with nothing on it.

"Your new account balance should appear on the slip momentarily once your deposit has been processed," the teller said a little stiffly. "Now please make way for the next person in line."

Looking behind him showed that there was no next person in line but he took that as his cue to leave anyway.

"Anyone else with a deposit to be made?" the teller called out as Hugh made his way back down the alleyway again, glancing at the parchment every few steps. "Very well," the goblin said as the sound of the ledger closing was heard. "A new teller will arrive at the top of the hour."

As he heard the a sound of the bank's double door creaking open behind him a crude drawing suddenly appeared on his phony receipt. It was hard to make out what it was supposed to be besides two rows of crooked, blocky teeth. One of them was even snaggletoothed, like a canine tooth that–

Hugh looked back at the bank and turned the receipt one quarter turn around as the bank door closed and suddenly what he was looking at made sense. That snaggletooth was the bank which made the whole thing a map, but to where? Looking closely at the cramped little strip of paper there was an odd circle with a dot in it.

_'__What the heck is that supposed to mean?'_ he wondered as he tried to walk in that direction like he actually knew what he was doing. _'Haven't these people ever heard that X marks the spot?'_

He tried not to grouse and just blend in but unfortunately that was rather hard to do when you were the only one there. When he got to where the dot-circle thing was supposed to be Hugh found himself at the entryway to none other than Knockturn Alley and he couldn't help but let out a groan. They wanted a part-goblin wearing a muggle suit to walk into the worst neighborhood in the magical world? The goblins were going to get him killed.

Hugh drew his wand as he entered the shadowy back alley and as soon as he was out of sight of the aurors he really wished to have them back. Everything was dark and dingy and there were what appeared to be human skulls in the shop windows. How could any of this be legal? Glancing back to the strip of paper that'd gotten him into this freakish hellscape he saw that it had changed.

There were more rectangular blocks that had to be buildings but the street curved in a different way, in fact it didn't even match up with– Turning the thing over again he saw that there was yet another dot-circle about halfway down the alley and it was almost enough to make him turn back and hide under his bed again. If there wasn't a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow then he was going to be really miffed.

Inching his way down the cramped and claustrophobic street Hugh twitched at every noise and tried to look in every direction at once. He even almost zapped a cat that showed up unexpectedly but a greasy guy came out some shop called Borgin &amp; Burkes to shoot him a look that said he'd better get going. Taking a breath along one of the walls, he gathered his strength before facing whatever the next challenge would be.

The dot-circle he was looking for was supposed to be around this next corner, in a tiny walkway between shops and he couldn't help but think that it'd be a great place for a mugger to hide.

"Rah!" Hugh roared as he sprang around the corner brandishing his wand only to find a giant cloaked thing waiting on him. _'Dementor!'_ his mind screamed and panic gripped him.

"Woah! Hey, watch it!" a high cracking voice said from under the hood that towered above him that didn't match at all with what he expected.

He angled his head and lit his wand to cast a beam of light so he could see this stranger's face.

"C'mon, quit it," the high scratchy voice said again as a pair of small hands darted out of the cloak to block his beam.

_'__Well it's definitely a goblin,_' Hugh thought as he cut off the spell, _'but how the heck did it get so big withou–_'

Darting forward he grabbed the stranger's cloak and flung it open to see that it was indeed standing on a stool. He then had to dodge out of the way almost immediately as a small booted foot kicked at his head.

"Thanks for completely blowing my cover," the goblin groused as it hopped off the stool. "We'll never be able to do that again. I take it you're Hobson?"

"Yes," he replied. "Who are you? Do you know how to get inside?"

"My name's Nunya Business and yeah I know how to get inside," the crackly voice said. "How'd you think I got out here if I didn't know how to back get in? C'mon, and bring my stool with you," the goblin said as it ran off, its over-long cloak dragging along the ground behind it.

A bit perturbed but no longer alone Hugh shrank the stool and put it in his cloak pocket. Whatever this job that Bankor had for him was he was hoping this would be the last time he had to get his hands dirty carrying around stools for a goblin that wouldn't even tell him their real name. Pulling his hood down and huddling in his cloak, he followed after them to see how far down this rabbit hole really went.

.o0O0o.

Molly felt absolutely dreadful. Turning the _Weekend Prophet_ over so she didn't have to see it didn't help her at all though because it was her own fault. She knew that her family was in dire financial straits with little to no hope of sending the kids to Hogwarts next year unless something changed but to blab about Harry's home life to the _Prophet_ just to land a job was – well, it was inexcusable, and it was worse because she didn't know what to do about it.

Should she bring it up to him and let him know that there was yet another adult in his life that he can't count on? Would apologizing be enough to make that feeling of betrayal any better? Could any apology ever be enough for that? And what would she tell him? She couldn't say that she did it for her family, for money, because he probably would've given all the money he had just to make sure that nobody ever hurt him again.

It felt like her heart was tying itself in knots and ripping itself apart. Part of her wanted to hug him for all he was worth like she would an injured son – because Merlin knows the boy deserves it – but the other part knew that she wasn't fit to do anything of the sort because she'd been the one to hurt him, even if he didn't know he was hurt yet. She wished that she could've spoken to Arthur about it but she'd been so ashamed that she couldn't bring herself to do it.

No. No, she decided, she couldn't tell Harry what she'd done. Rita Skeeter had said that she'd been working on getting that information from Lichfield anyway so her telling the woman wasn't that bad was it? Well of course it was, but a lot of what it said in the paper hadn't come from her so she wasn't the only one to blame. She only wished that more of what it said had come from him though so she wouldn't feel so bad.

Still, no matter how it had come out it'd been her fault so it was her responsibility to make it right somehow. As much as she wanted to hide what she'd done though she knew that Harry would find out sooner or later so the question was how to handle that. She couldn't let them go off to Hogwarts and be surprised with this on the train; surely everyone in the country would be talking about this soon. No, it'd be best if he found out about it sooner rather than later and somewhere he's comfortable so that people won't be able to pester him about it.

That said that it should happen here and now though and she didn't think her conscience could handle that, not without having to tell him everything. The whole point was to help him feel better about everything and that would only make the whole thing worse. Maybe… Yes, maybe she could wait a day or two. She could hide the paper and bring it up with him on Monday; surely her conscience would've settled by then enough for to talk to him about it.

She could make it seem like she'd only just heard about it and wanted to make sure that he was okay and if he wanted to talk. That wriggled her conscience too but it wasn't exactly a lie, not really. It just wasn't telling him everything that happened the way that it happened and that was something he didn't need to worry about. When the whole truth would only hurt though what was wrong with less truth and more kindness mixed in? And if that left them with a pleasant little fiction that helped moved things on to a better place then where was the harm in that?

Thunderous footsteps echoing down from above signaled the imminent arrival of the boys but as she scrambled to pick up the paper before anyone saw it was Ginny who popped up first.

"Hey, Mum," her daughter said a bit more melancholy than she had been the last week.

"Morning, dear," she replied as she crossed into the kitchen and stashed the _Prophet_ in her junk drawer. "You feel alright?" Molly asked, wondering if another case of the Sullens was about to break out since that Hermione girl was supposed to be here today.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answered before tucking in to the breakfast Dobby had wafted over.

Talk was cut off once the boys entered and the day got started but ever since Bill had questioned her about the girl Ginny had seemed to be this great unknown living in her house. Once she'd backed away a bit and let the girl run off on her own she had turned into a completely different person than what she'd been expecting. Loud, rowdy, and argumentative she was much more like one of the boys than the little woman she'd always seen her to be.

_'__Than what I'd wanted her to be,_' she corrected herself as she really took a look at her kids. They were boisterous and uncouth and got in trouble all the time but – but they were happy, and wasn't that the most important thing? _'I swore that I'd do a better job than my mother but… when do you know when you're done?'_

A small puff of green flame burst from the fireplace and before she had a chance to even wonder what it was Percy piped in to provide it.

"Mum, it's Mr. Diggory."

She peeked over to see Harry looking curiously from the table at the ruddy face with a scrubby brown beard that was sitting in the fire and the curious face looking right back at him.

"Merlin's beard," the man's head said, "you're Harry Potter."

"Amos!" she cried, coming over to distract the man with his favorite subject before he ruined everything. "How's Cedric doing?"

"Good, good!" the man said merrily as he turned his attention to her. "Hasn't started Fourth Year yet and he's already studying for O.W.L.s," he boasted. "He's got Prefect written all over him, that one, maybe even Quidditch Captain too. Anyway, I'm looking for Arthur."

"Did someone say Amos?" her husband asked as he came downstairs straightening his robes.

"Floo for you, dear," Molly said with a smile as she went back to guard the _Prophet_ in the junk drawer.

"Ah, Amos, how are you?" Arthur asked as he bent over to see him better.

"Good, good," he replied, "I'm sorry to ask but they need you to come in. There's a muggle concern that may get out of hand and they're looking for anyone with experience to help out."

"What seems to be the problem?" her husband asked and she didn't even have to see Amos's eyes shift elsewhere to know what it was about.

"Have you seen the _Prophet_ this morning?" Amos asked instead.

"No," Arthur answered before turning to her. "Have you seen the paper, dear?"

"No," she quietly squeaked, showing her empty hands as if to say she hadn't touched it, all the while the handle to the junk drawer burned a hole in her backside.

"No worries, I-I'll just tell you when you get here," Amos said with a falsely happy tone. "No need to trouble anyone else's breakfast, eh? Have a good morning, everyone," he smiled a toothy grin before disappearing back into the flames with a _pop!_ and she felt a wave of nausea roil her stomach. Today was not going to be an easy one.

"Well I guess I should be going," her husband said as he straightened up.

"Have a good day at the office, dear," she said kindly as the kids said their farewells. "And take some toast with you," she added from her safely guarded spot, "no need to go hungry."

Mouth full of buttered toast, the best man in the world left the house with a smile that made her think that the world would turn out right after all. Almost immediately though the back door flew open again grabbing everyone's attention. Harry's little girlfriend had arrived with a fist full of newspaper. Where had she gotten that?!

Blood pounded in Molly's ears and she felt weak in the knees. Rooted to the spot, she couldn't hear a thing anyone was saying but saw Hermione go to Harry with the newspaper and all of the others curiously looking on. She had to do something, she had to. She had to find some way of burying that guilt she felt. She had to-to-to… As if pulled along by magic she took the pan of eggs Dobby was cooking off the stove and hurried towards the table.

"Hermione, dear," she said with a panicked smile as she spooned Harry's plate full. "You're just in time for breakfast."

.o0O0o.

The purging light of the Greater Good was an all-consuming flame that spread its tendrils into your most secret places to reveal your hidden faults and sear away the corruption that it found. It was a very painful process indeed for it did so even to the faults that you didn't know were faults, for there was nothing that that light couldn't find. All the secrets that you kept held close and all the lies you told yourself in order to maintain your own personal truth amounted to less than nothing to that which ordered everything.

Albus had thought he knew just how painful a process that it could be when it began and had dedicated himself to embracing this blessed torment so that he might learn the hard truths that the Greater Good was striving to carve into his very soul. It was this humble devotion that had kept him mostly cloistered away in the last week with his eyes piously downcast, a signal to others that he saw and acknowledged the great disappointment in their eyes as he worked to internalize the pain behind the shame they wanted to bestow.

Little did he know though that the Greater Good was scarcely getting started. The first rays of light brought with it a notice from the Board of Governors informing Hogwarts of the imminent arrival of a Ministry delegation to accompany investigators from the I.C.W. as they conduct a thorough search and inquiry regarding any role they may have played regarding his purported involvement with the Sorcerer's Stone. The staff was likewise ordered to give their full and complete compliance with the investigation or face not only the loss of their position but risk criminal charges being levied against them by the Ministry.

With a sigh Albus knew that it was too much. If there was one way to mend the rift that had grown between himself and the other staff then it would be this but he simply couldn't allow his friends to put themselves in jeopardy on his account. It'd be too much to ask to have them to leap to his defense and proclaim the rightness of his actions, as of course they would want to do, since doing so would put Hogwarts and the next school year at too much risk.

_'__No, this is a burden that I must take upon myself,_' he decided before scratching out a short message with a bedraggled quill. Through pleasantly humble Bobopsy the pious old steward of the wizarding world sent the notice off to Professor McGonagall with a note that read, _'Under the circumstances, I will leave this in your capable hands. I know the staff will do whatever they can to be helpful and accommodating to our guests._'

As soon as it was gone though doubts bubbled up in his mind and as much as he resisted the urge to think them they popped forth nonetheless. Would the staff would be too helpful? Would they reveal too much? What part of the Greater Good's grand design would be hampered or delayed if this were to happen?

When an unanticipated twist of fate brought forth closer ties between the Ministry and the I.C.W. – something he'd been working towards for a decade with no success – Albus couldn't deny that the Greater Good was indeed at work here, but did that mean that the Greater Good truly wanted everyone to know everything about what had happened and why? A truthful account of the Stone, the protections, and possibly Quirrell would no doubt be required – as well as a search to give them the possibility to confirm the tale – but what of Voldemort?

_'__And so comes the choice between what is right and what is easy,_' Albus mused. _'A single word of that, when taken with the truth about the Stone, would see this whole misunderstanding disappear, thrust me back into a position of power, reveal the truth of Harry's destiny, and array the wizarding world behind me so that we could go forth with determination to permanently prevent any chance the man might have to ever return. But what of Harry and those poor misguided souls who deserved their Second Chance?'_

With former Death Eaters amongst the population, telling the world of Voldemort's survival may cause the unforgiving in their society to attempt to rip away the Second Chance they'd been given after the war and it might tempt the less repentant in that group into taking up their old cause once again. Albus couldn't do that to them; though they differed in political persuasions and policy proposals, they still deserved the lives they'd built in peace and happiness.

Revealing Harry's destiny to the world now would be the worst thing that could happen to all of them. And though the abandonment allegations against him would be tossed aside once the reasons for his actions came to light, that was not the sort of thing that a child like Harry would understand or accept. Doubtlessly by now the young boy would've had his mind so firmly set against him that only a climactic clash in court could create the catharsis the child craved.

Albus well remembered when he was a young boy and the issue had been his own father's trial. There was a crystal clarity and sureness that came from attending the proceedings, reading the transcripts, and studying trial notes that Harry was sure to cling to. And after all, if the Greater Good was arranging events to have Harry return to him with an open heart and a readiness to learn then he had to know that everything he'd done had been for the best, and preventing that misunderstanding from proceeding to trial would keep that from happening.

Had that catharsis not happened for him when he was younger than Harry was now then who knows what he might have become? His childish rage at what those muggles had done to his sister may have seen him grow up to become another Tom or Gellert. Seeking to inflict the same harm on others that he'd felt himself wasn't the way to heal anything though, a truth that his father's silence acknowledged when he had been sentenced for his crime.

_'__And worse,_' Albus thought to himself as he brought his considerable mind back to the matter at hand. _'Revealing Harry's destiny this early and stifling the supposed abandonment would put Harry at risk. Not only would the danger come from Tom's former followers that may secretly wish to take up their master's cause once again but an equal danger would come from the boy himself and those who'd destroy his entire childhood._'

Harry was a young boy with a dark future looming ahead of him and if there was anyone in the world who deserved the happy time of a normal childhood before he had to face the grim realities of life as an adult, it would be him. Knowing about this destiny before he was ready to know, and before he was ready to be guided to do what must be done, could cause him to run from it… and that would doom the world. Worse still, perhaps, would be the Ministry or the I.C.W. taking him in hand to raise him and train him to be a weapon tasked with but a single purpose rather than letting him grow to be a young man who was willing to give his all for a cause.

_'__No,_' Albus thought humbly as a quieting sense of calm settled over him like a cloak. _'I've promised the Greater Good that I'd only to reveal his destiny to him at the proper time, and I will keep that promise. I've learned my lesson about pursuing personal power, conspiring for control, and sacrificing other people's happiness in order to gain my own and I will not turn my back on that now. This is my burden to bear._'

This burden was something that he did not fully bear alone though for he had already shared part of it with someone else. Minerva may have hardened her heart towards him in recent weeks for what she thought his actions would do to the school and its children but once the truth of things were revealed and Harry was returned to him then perhaps it would be time to trust her with this deeper truth as well. It was with a pang of sadness though that Albus scratched out a note he knew would pain the most secretly sensitive man that he knew.

With a gentle rustle of her wings Fawkes flew over to him from across the all but empty office to land on the old wooden crate that he now used as a desk. Just as he finished she sang out a short song that brought an image of the Owlery and a sense of flying off to points unknown to his mind.

"Ah, yes. If you would please, Fawkes," Albus said with a jovial smile as he positioned the note for her to clasp in her talons. "Severus should be in his room still."

In an envelope of flame that consumed neither her, the note, nor scarred the crate's rough surface Fawkes disappeared.

_'__Such a pure soul she has,_' he thought as he flexed his knee and made to stand, thinking to make his way to the large open balcony area of the office to better contemplate the rising sun. _'Indeed it's at times like these that makes her seem less like an animal companion and more like the Greater Good's comforting hand given form and substance. Surely that must mean that there's hope for me still._'

Albus had just reached his feet when Bobopsy reappeared carrying a tray with this morning's breakfast, an aromatic vegetable soup. As appetizing as the soup smelled though there was something else on the tray that caught his attention, a _Daily Prophet._ As odd as it was for them to run one of their rare weekend editions, running one two weekends in a row was something that may well have never happened before.

"Thank you, Bobopsy," the kindly old Headmaster said as he took the tray with a smile and set it on his crate-desk. "You are too kind."

Beaming with joy from the well-deserved praise the little elf took his leave again. Albus left the soup to cool and took the newspaper in hand as he hobbled towards the morning's light. Surely something momentous must have happened to cause the _Prophet_ to trip over themselves to rush out another issue so quickly. Peace declared with the goblins? The release of their hostages? With the Greater Good at work whatever it was it sure to be for the good but what Albus found did not seem good at all.

That the Ministry and the goblins had decided to continue their petty bickering was unfortunate but perhaps it had been too much to expect that to change any time soon. The Greater Good often acted at almost a glacial pace for it was with an innumerable amount of tiny changes that an unalterable great change could occur. And if the Greater Good was indeed orchestrating events in order to bring about a fundamental shift in wizarding relations with their goblin counterparts – as he now believed to be the case – then it may well take a decade to puzzle out the Ultimate Purpose that the Greater Good had in mind and another hundred years to help bring it about.

But as murky as those issues were though the story about Harry's aunt and uncle was even more troubling. The _Prophet_ was sure to be showing things with an anti-muggle bias just as it'd shown an anti-Ministry bias to things before, so them portraying the Dursleys in an overly-negative light was to be expected.

_'__But still,_' Albus thought as he paced back and forth in thought and hummed to himself, the dull grinding ache in his wounded knee helping to focus his thoughts. _'Going so far as to call them "muggle monsters" is doing them a great disservice._'

Thinking of Harry's family negatively only displayed one's own ignorance for even a passing familiarity with the alchemical arts would tell you what a vital function they served in Harry's life above and beyond what they did to ensure his safety and security. Since none of them knew the reason why Harry had to be placed there with them in the first place though all of this was yet another misunderstanding. The most troubling part though was how they knew of them at all and that they had gotten close enough to take their picture.

The privacy protections that he'd given to the Dursleys in that letter had been cunningly and cleverly designed, and even his most humble opinion now could do nothing to diminish the simple sophistication involved in their construction. Indeed it was something very close to what he had employed in those protections that Albus had gone on to use again ten years later when it came to hiding the Stone from Voldemort, for only someone who wanted to find Harry or the Dursleys – find them, but not harm them – would be able to get to their home.

Briefly Albus stopped his pacing to ponder if some sympathetic properties within those elements had arranged themselves in such a way that it gathered them all together to lead Harry not only to find the Mirror of Erised but to pursue Quirrell as well.

_'__Hm,_' he hummed as he stroked his mustache and ran his fingers through his beard, _'the Greater Good does indeed work in mysterious ways. But why would young Harry think of his family in this way, much less tell such things to the _Prophet?' Albus wondered as he began pacing again.

From his observations of the boy last year Harry had seemed to be a very private person. It wouldn't be like him to talk about his life to the likes of Rita Skeeter just to gain a bit of notoriety; someone else must have told them. But with any letters to Harry being redirected to the back room Bathilda used for her publishing unless the boy knew of the sender himself, Harry would have had to tell them where to find his home and Harry was too private a person to do that.

Albus knew that he was grasping at straws when the truly preposterous crossed his mind. They had thrown him from their house just for seeming to go against the boy; the Weasleys would never betray Harry's confidence like that, even if he had told them, and if there was one person who'd be most likely to take to the child like an adoptive mother it'd be Molly. The only way such a thing could be even be remotely possible would be if they saw each other not as adoptive family but as distant friends, or even acquaintances.

Surely the Greater Good wouldn't work that way. What better Ultimate End could there be than for Harry to become a part of one big happy Weasley family? Surely staying in that home would have him yearn for what he'd never had and awaken that loving core that makes him so different than Voldemort. And in the event that the Greater Good found a way for Harry to survive, then who better for him to marry than one of the Weasleys? He and his friend Ron were close, if he went in that direction, and if he didn't there was always the sister.

_'__Who better for Harry to end up with than someone who'd look so much like his mother?' _Albus smiled at the thought. _'If the Greater Good did indeed see fit to bestow such a loving life to our young hero then it would be a well-deserved reward for all his hardship._'

A soft trilling song sang out behind him, rousing Albus from his thoughts and he turned to see a recently-returned Fawkes take delicate sips from his soup. She was right of course; if he spent all his time wondering about things that the Greater Good had taken out of his hands when they had guests on their way then he would be left to meet them on an empty stomach. Still, as he hobbled his way up the steps to his bedchamber it was hard to keep his mind away from his charge.

Long before his life was changed by _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ he had been drawn to children's stories, both magical and muggle alike, for they revealed essential truths about what makes us all human. One of his muggle favorites had been that of _Cinderella_, and though it sounded like some terrible disease it showed how purity of heart could be gained from living with a family that others would say were cruel and that seemed to console his sister. For Harry to think so ill of his family though made as much sense as Cinderella asking the Prince to behead her stepmother and stepsisters or pluck out their eyes so they'd be blind. Something very different had to be going on here.

He pondered the situation deeply as he carefully tore out the newspaper articles, neatly licked the corners, and massaged the pulpy paper edges into the rough crevices between the stone bricks so that they would stay on his bedchamber wall. Though he usually took this time to reflect on the stories that showed his failings, all the missed opportunities that he could have had to work for the Greater Good, and to take in that loss and sorrow into himself, today it would have to wait. As he turned to go he saw Harry's large uncle's muggle weapon explode in smoke again and a curious thought occurred to him that changed everything.

_'__Ah!'_ Albus thought as his mind made connections between things that he hadn't thought possible and the reasons within reasons and the wheels within wheels of the Greater Good appeared in his head. _'Perhaps it's not only Harry that is being spiritually purified,_' he thought, full of awe at the majesty of the Greater Good's Grand Design. _'Perhaps it's also the Dursleys themselves!'_

He put his hands together in front of his lips and thanked the Greater Good for showing him this truth, for now the real reasons for why so many things have been happening had been revealed. The Greater Good not only wanted Harry to be changed by his experiences with the Dursleys but for them to be changed by this. This story was sure to draw the ire of the wizarding world, many of whom would want to give the Dursleys 'a good talking to,' though his protections would prevent the most severe of those from ever finding them.

The Dursleys, though, could hide no more for the Greater Good had found them and exposed them to the purging fires of the public, just as it had him. Their deeds would be exposed, the harsh treatments and unfairness they'd shown to young Harry would be known to all, and the wizarding world would at last learn the importance of good and caring parents for the last thing they'd want to be would be anything like the Dursleys. Yes, Harry was indeed so central to the well-being of the wizarding world that the Greater Good was pulling all the disparate threads of his life together in order to change the world in truly remarkable ways.

And there's no doubt that the Dursleys would be changed by this. They'd finally get a good hard look at the unfeeling monsters they had become and fall to their knees begging for Harry's forgiveness, and of course once he saw the truth behind things he'd be happy to give it. This, of course, spoke volumes of the Greater Good's intentions for Harry to be returned to him in friendship, returned to his family's warm embrace, and for Harry to live beyond his ordeal with Voldemort – though that last was still only the heartfelt hopes of a caring old man.

_'__Surely the Greater Good would want Harry to live,_' he thought sorrowfully as he gazed at the bottom corner of the _Prophet'_s picture of Lockhart's public embarrassment; the only picture he had of Harry. _'Having him die after making the world safe, after changing the world so that he might finally find love and friendship… that would cause heartache the likes of which the wizarding world has never known._'

In his own aching heart though Albus knew just how much it was that sorrow could affect someone. If the Greater Good did indeed intend to change their world through the life of Harry Potter then it stood to reason that his very heroic death could make that change bone deep and irreversible. It would be a sad thing to have happen, but it was something that he would have to make peace with just in case that time ever came.

.o0O0o.

The stone hallway was dark; it's rough cave-like walls only dimly lit by torches. It was not what he'd expected a bank to be like though truth be told he'd only been in this one's lobby, and even then only when he had to. He'd heard tales of people "going down to their vaults," and occasionally complaints about the carts they had to ride in to get there but he'd never put much stock in them before. He certainly hadn't thought they'd have money locked away in actual jail cells somewhere.

His long-cloaked goblin guide motioned for him to stay back and stay quiet before going ahead to peer around the next turn. Not nearly goblin enough to stand there and wait in the dark Hugh decided to go up and join it.

"Do you know where you're going?" he asked the no-named goblin.

"Of course I know where I'm going," his goblin guide's voice said as it cracked. "I wish I didn't but believe me, there's no other way."

"What do you mean?" Hugh asked, images of tight-rope walking over a precipice flashing through his head.

"I'm not even remotely authorized to use the faster way to get there," the goblin said like that supposed to mean anything, "and that means we've got to go through the lobby."

"So? What's the big deal with that?" he asked. "I've been in the lobby before."

The goblin gave off a chuckle that was more like a cackle, "Not like this, you haven't. You're gonna want to take off your cloak," it said as it worked to take off its ridiculously over-sized garment.

"Why?" he asked even while he did the same.

"You really have to ask?" the high-pitched voice batted back at him. "What country are you from that you don't know what's going on?" the goblin's voice cracked again as they finally got a good look at each other.

The goblin's leather boots were worn, tough-looking, but roughly made and the same went for its pants. Hugh didn't know what this goblin did here but it was far cry from the suit-wearing tellers he'd always seen before. Its arms full of bundled cloak he couldn't see what the shirt was like but from the sleeves it looked like rough-spun cloth.

It was the face and hair that struck him as odd though. Its features were sharper than his but still less like any other goblin's face he'd seen before; somehow it looked more humany than most. Its hair was swept over to one side in an almost stylized way that just didn't match with anything he'd been expecting at all. Was this another part-goblin?

"What's your job title anyway?" the goblin asked taking a long look at his suit.

"I don't have one," Hugh confessed. "I'm here for a job interview… I think."

The goblin looked at him more curiously than ever, its head tilted slightly to one side.

"But that's impossible," its voice cracked. "That's not even the way things work here!"

"It has to be," he said more out of hope than certainty. "Bankor even gave me this," he said as he drew out the knife that'd been poking at him.

"Knut-nabbing nifflers!" the cracking voice of the goblin exclaimed as everything about it kind of shifted in his head. "That's not possible!"

The part-goblin hypothesis was bounced out of his head by something else so quickly that it couldn't help but escape his mouth as soon as he thought it.

"You're a girl goblin," Hugh said wonderingly. _'She has to be. The female Flitwicks always looked more human than the others, I just didn't notice._'

The girl snatched his cloak from his other hand and looked at him with a hard expression.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked with gritted, pointed teeth making him feel very vulnerable despite the fact that he was the one with the weapon.

"N-nothing," he said quickly. "I've just never seen one before."

Again the girl tilted her head to one side as if unsure what he was saying.

"Did they teach you to be this stupid?" she asked.

"I'm starting to think so," Hugh replied, wondering if it was too late to go back to Hogwarts and demand a refund.

"Hang on," she said, dropping the cloaks before she grabbed him, whirled around, and slammed him against the wall almost directly under a torch.

"Ow," he groused and wondered just how many times he's going to get hit in the back of the head this week.

"Quit whining," the girl said as she held his head back and got up close to examine him.

Having a girl this close to him was uncomfortable. Her getting so close as to give him a good sniff and look like she was thinking about licking him just to see what he tasted like was just... he-he didn't even have a word for it. And why? Was there something wrong with his deodorant? Being this close to her showed how strange she was too. She didn't smell like a girl at all, she was all leather, wood smoke, and clean sweat rather than the heavy soap, powder, and perfume mixture that human girls smelled like.

What really shocked him was what she did next. She grabbed him by the–!

"Hey!" he cried as he moved to guard himself. "That's not appropriate."

"You're telling me," the goblin girl agreed as she backed away. "You're prettier than I am!" her voice creaked out in protest.

Hugh was caught off guard. He didn't know what to expect today but being called pretty and that other thing weren't even something he'd considered even remotely possible.

"What the heck are you anyway?" she asked.

"I happen to be a wizard," he replied quickly as he fumbled with the dagger and taking out his wand to fend her off. "You-you just keep your hands to yourself if you know what's good for you."

"You're a – And that's a – Then you're a–," little miss no-name said quickly, though thankfully she kept her groping to the words she needed to put everything together. "Huh," she said finally as she picked up the cloaks again. "They've always said that you guys were ugly."

Hugh didn't know what to say to that so he didn't dignify it with a response.

"What kind of name is that for one of you anyway?" the girl asked with her head tilted to the side again, probably thinking that 'one of you' was somehow better than calling him the name that everyone else would use in her position. "Hewn Hobson? How'd that happen?"

"What?" he asked, his mind obviously not making the leaps she took.

"What what?" she asked with a shrug. "You get that from your dad cutting down the son of a guy named Hob or what?"

"What?" he asked again this time out of the shock of sheer strangeness. "Oh! No," Hugh said as what she was talking about came together. "Hugh. Hugh. Not hewn, Hugh. It's a muggle name, I don't know what it means – or even if it means anything – but Hobson might have something to do with a guy named Hob somewhere down the line but damned if I know."

"Oh," she said looking a bit disappointed. "That's not that interesting at all." She shoved the cloaks back at him and said, "Follow me," before darting around the corner.

Grumbling and with the dagger in one hand, a wand in the other, and the bundle of cloaks held awkwardly in between Hugh followed as he could. There was a large square doorway standing open maybe twenty feet away and with each step he took to it the whole area seemed to get brighter, warmer, and smell worse. Looking out he could see nothing but what must've been the business side of the teller's stations but there was this a clinking of metal and a deep in-and-out breezy sound as if there was a giant lurking somewhere out of sight.

No-name turned to him when he joined her and whispered, "Stay quiet, move fast, and try not to draw attention."

Nodding, Hugh followed along behind her quickly, not really knowing why. To the left they went and down the teller area; he didn't know if they were going towards the front of the bank or the back but he supposed as long as Miss Grabby-Hands knew where to go it didn't matter. At the end of the row they turned right and he finally got to see the source of the smell and noise as they were exposed to the common area of the lobby.

Large, scarred, and chained right there for all to see was something in the lobby alright but it wasn't a giant – it was giant albino dragon! Dropping everything but his wand to clatter to the floor Hugh grabbed Grabby-Hands and pulled her back as the animal strained against its restraints at the noise. There were sounds of goblins coming out to do something but he had other concerns.

"What's your problem?" the girl said in a whispered hiss as she yanked her arm free from him.

"There's a dragon in there!" he whispered back.

"Yeah, who doesn't know that we have dragons?" she asked quietly.

"But that's just an urban legend," Hugh said as he glanced back at the beast as if saying that would make it disappear.

"What's an urban?" the girl asked curiously.

"It's nothing, nothing," he replied as he put a hand across his face and wondered how he allowed himself to get into this mess as the dragon quieted down. Why on Earth was he doing this for a clerical position? He had to be insane.

"Well then shut up and come on," she told him before creeping quickly out again, though thankfully more away from the scaly beast than before.

Steeling himself while he picked up his stuff from the floor he followed along behind her but went nowhere near as quickly as she did. Inching along the behind the dragon he tried to remember anything he could about dragons and any spell that could help but he was coming up blank. Instead he focused on all the bindings the dragon had on it and how strong they looked.

_'__Yep,_' he thought as he made his way along, _'those are some strong bindings there. The ones pinning the tail and wings? They're not about to break. Nope, not at all. Not in a million years._'

Something hard bumped into him from behind causing him to jump. It turned out it was a wall, his course seemed to have taken him further from the dragon than expected, not that he was complaining. Judging from the beckoning gestures of Noname McGroper though she was obviously unhappy. Then again, she was the one nuts enough to stand near two goblins who were shoveling dragon dung into a cart near the dragon's backside so their views of what's tolerable were worlds apart.

Rather than go back her way – which must've been faster – Hugh stuck to the distant wall instead, finally coming to another large door that was standing open. Dressed in scarlet and gold, the goblins in this hallway were all seated and at their ease, at least until he showed up. The first one to notice him popped up from his chair, followed quickly by several others, and it was partway through a salute before it stopped and gave him an odd look as if it didn't know what to make of him.

There was a tug on his elbow and he turned to see the no-named girl there to harass him again.

"Not the vaults. This way," she said as she took a hold of his arm pulled him out of the hallway, leaving the guards with their confusion.

An iron grip on his arm, she steered him back out to the lobby, to the left again, and didn't let go until they were behind the line of teller stations on that side of the room. Hugh rubbed his arm and contemplated just wondering off to find his own way as she looked back around the corner of the desk to check where they'd just been. All the different doors on this side of the lobby and the chance of running into other dragons kept him from it though.

"You have any idea how fast rumors spread here if you're not careful?" the girl asked, drawing his attention back to her again.

"Say what now?" he asked in return before remembering that there was only a desk between him and a dragon and lowered his volume. "What are you talking about?"

"You really don't know anything about goblins, do you?"

"I know a little," he said defensively.

"Well a little's not enough," she remarked with another look that said he was an idiot. "Those guys could make your career a short one just for looking at them wrong," she explained, "and a suit's only going to give them pause if you're a litigator or something."

He briefly thought of asking what Chief Record Keeper would do for him but thought it'd be too depressing to find out for sure. Why did he ever think that taking a job here would be a step up rather than ten steps down?

"I'll keep that in mind," he said finally, "but I don't see why you care."

"Because I was the one seen with you," her crackly voice said. "And soon rumors are gonna be all over the place that one of you are here. Now come on before you earn me more than mockery," she said as she walked off again.

All the way down the long series of desks they went and through the last door on the left, which lead them to a tiny corridor with a steep set of stairs. What grabbed their attention though was the suited goblin in front of another smaller door that was putting something small and silver into its pocket.

"Nunya?" Bankor exclaimed curiously.

"What are you doing here?" the girl brazenly asked the Overseer, her voice cracking as Hugh's eyes ping-ponged back and forth.

"I came to see what's taking Mr. Hobson so long," Bankor replied. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"They said you wanted to honor this guy," the goblin-potentially-named-Nunya said. "So yeah, they got me to do it."

"You were the–?!" the older goblin broke off quickly seemingly perturbed in a way Hugh had never thought possible. "You're not supposed to be Outside. It's not your place to do such dangerous work," the Overseer said with a finality that the back of Hugh's head disagreed with.

"I'm not afraid of the Outside," the girl argued, "and I can do anything just as–"

"We'll discuss it later," Bankor said firmly, holding up a hand to cut her off. "Later!" he reiterated when she opened her mouth to argue again.

The girl grit her teeth with a stubborn set face and looked for a moment like she was going to be scrappy enough to contradict the goblin yet again. Instead she snatched the cloaks out of his hands and stalked back through the door they'd come from. In the awkward silence that followed Hugh asked Bankor the first question that popped into his mind.

"Is her name really Nunya Business?"

Rather than settled by the break in tension Bankor looked even more ruffled.

"Her mother used to work for Confidential," the Overseer said by way of explanation as he needlessly smoothed his suit. Rather than ask him to explain what his explanation meant though Hugh just let the subject drop.

"I wanted to thank you for this opportunity, uh, Overseer," he said, uncertain how exactly he was supposed to refer to the goblin.

"Considering the hardship that you were placed under that day at the Ministry," Bankor said back in his polished manner, "this seemed a reasonable recompense. In terms of human law though it's important to note that–"

"–Any job I get here is completely unconnected to me stamping that form," Hugh said for him. "The old man you sent made that point very clear. I suppose that means I can give you this back now though," he said, offering him back the dagger.

Bankor held up a hand to tell him to hold off.

"Technically you should keep that until the promise has been fulfilled," he told him, gesturing for him to put it away, which he did. "Normally someone in your position would be taking the stairs to the upper levels," the goblin said with an eye for the feature in question. "Under the circumstances though a quick jump to the top would work just as well," the Overseer said as he took what appeared to be a tiny silver key from his pocket and turned to the door behind him.

_'__Whoever designed that lift should be shot,_' Hugh thought a few moments later as his stomach jumped and dived and looped like a drunken Quidditch player as he steadied himself on the guacamole-colored wall. "That lift goes way too fast," he said aloud instead.

"That's always been my opinion as well," Bankor said from somewhere nearby. "Overseer Fillast has never seen the need to slow it down though but at least it doesn't flip you anymore," the goblin said in a way that seemed honest but could've been a lie to make him feel better. "Come," he said from the hallway, "we're here."

It was not the kind of room Hugh had been expecting. Large stone blocks made up the walls that went up to a dark ceiling above and there was a chill to the air that made him feel sad and alone for some reason. All-in-all it felt more like they'd gone down into some dank dungeon rather than up to the heights of the building and he couldn't figure out why the leaders of the bank would want something so dull and depressing; if this were a human bank it probably would've been luxurious.

A sonorous ringing made him look to the left where he saw Bankor returning a mallet to a hook next to a silver gong set in a niche. The Overseer hurried to the center of the room and beckoned him to join him. From the center of the room everything seemed different – yet entirely the same.

Everything was dominated by the huge double doors in front of him which made the small areas to the left and right seem like antechamber waiting rooms. There was an odd familiarity about the place too. It was almost as if his mind was telling him that there should be stairs nearby and he could turn around and see another set of large doors instead of the gong.

_'__Merlin's Beard!'_ he thought as everything came crashing into place. _'They've made it look like–!'_

The double doors split, held open by a pair of guards in scarlet and gold, and a group of goblins filed in from a larger room beyond. Hugh didn't know what he was looking at but whatever it was didn't feel like a job interview so he tried to piece it all together from what he knew.

There were six goblins facing him, not counting the two guards, and of those six only two didn't have suits. With Bankor added with them that made seven, which was still two less than the nine people that the Ministry thought Gringott's Overseers' Council currently had though who they all were and what they did weren't exactly known. And there wasn't a human with them, he noted, there was always supposed to be a human so unless what he knew was out of date this couldn't be all of them.

"Who brings this one to us?" a bald-headed goblin near the middle of the group demanded.

"I do," Bankor said, taking a step forward. "Bankor, Overseer of Ministerial Matters."

"He's a Brownblood," an unsuited goblin with a short-cropped buzz cut and a wicked scar over one eye snarled. "He doesn't belong here," he said with an eye red with hate boring into him.

"He's the best candidate for the job," Bankor said defensively. "He has all the relevant knowledge and skill we need and has already shown a great commitment to the Goblin People."

"And what has he ever done for us?"

Hugh didn't know if he deserved Bankor's determined response. He was just Hugh, little Hugh Hobson, the night guy from the Goblin Liaison Office that liked to think of himself as an idea guy. He wasn't the great problem solver that he was being made out to be; he couldn't think of a single thing he'd ever done that had actually solved anything. Even stamping the form that got him here had only made things worse from what he could see.

It was obvious that possible-Overseer Buzzcut wasn't moved by Bankor's statement in the least and the others looked dubious at best. The bald suit at the center looked to the others and didn't seem to like what he saw either. The short fat one was preoccupied with its stomach as if wondering how long it'd be until he had to buy a bigger size suit while another that was thin and buttoned-down made a gesture saying he needed more time to think. The only bright spot was an odd little goblin with a silly mustache and a big grin that looked around as if he was just excited to be there.

He was just wondering where the last one was when he got poked in the back. Turning he saw the other unsuited goblin walk out from behind him and give him a good once-over. Dressed all in drab dark colors and not making a sound as he passed it felt very much like a ninja giving you a prostate exam. He didn't even want to guess what that guy did for them; professional assassin, most likely.

"The Ministry," Mr. Buttondown said as if he disliked how the word tasted. "We had to deal with that problem yesterday. Why are we inviting it in again?"

"It will not be the same with him," Bankor said swiftly. "The position that's been set aside is–"

"Fah!" Buzzcut butted in. "It will be the same. Dress him up however you want he'll always be a wizard. Wizard born and wizard raised; why would he choose to be a goblin now?"

"M-muggle," Hugh said, finally finding a voice buried somewhere in his dry and scratchy throat. The six that faced them looked at him appraisingly so he felt it wise to go on. "I was muggle raised, not wizard, and I live that way still," he explained, thinking that if they were going to turn him away for being what he was then at least they should know what that meant.

"Even more of an outsider," Buttondown with a shake of his head. "What does he know of being a goblin?"

"You think I don't know what it's like?" he answered taking a step forward. "Anyone who's ever read magical history knows what you've been through. You've been stomped on and pushed around for centuries and you don't think I know what that's like? Look at me!" Hugh said, pointing to his misshapen face as the feeling of sorrow and loss in the room blended with his own and he fought from letting it show. "Do I look human? Do you think they've ever once treated me like a human being?

"The muggles I was raised with called me dwarf and elf and other things that were even worse," he continued though he wasn't about to say that the even worse he'd been called was 'little goblin' because he'd been forbidden from ever telling anyone it was true. "Do you think that stopped when I went to school? Human children can be the cruelest creatures you can imagine to anyone who's even the tiniest bit different and I was more than a little bit different.

"And do you think that stopped when I went to Hogwarts?" Hugh asked rhetorically, "If anything it got worse. Jinxes in the back, all my things 'mysteriously disappearing,' tripping down the stairs every other day – You have any idea how many stairs there are in that castle? You used to be able to count how many there were from the bruises I had on me and do you think the teachers were any help? No, they blamed me for being 'too goblin' when all I did was defend myself.

"If you don't want to hire me because I don't know what you're like behind closed doors, that's fine," he said to the six of them as he finally began to wind down. "One trip through your building let me know just how different you are from everything I've known so if you want to chuck me out for it then fine, I'm used to it. But don't you dare try to say that I don't know it feels to be a goblin because I've been living with it every day of my life," he finished, blinking away the tears before they had a chance to really form.

Hugh knew that he'd just blown the best job opportunity he'd ever have but he didn't care. If he was going to be chucked out for telling them the truth then so be it. What he had said had to be said and it wasn't like any other part-goblin would ever get the chance to say it right to the Overseers' faces again so even if they threw him out directly into the waiting arms of the Ministry it'd be worth it for that alone.

Buzzcut rolled its eyes contemptuously and some of the others looked thoughtful; the fat one looked down right embarrassed. It was the bald one at the center that he looked to though, to the one that was looking him as if he'd never seen the like before, which he may well haven't.

_'__This one has to be the Barchoke the Ministry was talking about, the one they think is Grand Overseer,_' he thought as he waited for the hammer to come down. _'They say Barchoke is bald for some reason so this has to be him, so at least I'll be chucked out by the best._'

"What would it take?" the maybe-Barchoke one asked finally. "What could you do? What would be enough to make this feeling of yours go away?"

Hugh didn't know if it was money or power or fame he was talking about but the answer to it all was the same.

"Nothing," he said almost immediately. "Nothing will ever be enough."

The bald goblin turned to Buzzcut but that one looked closer to murdering him than agreeing with anything. The fat one shrugged when the bald suit in charge looked at him and wheezed, "Well, someone's got to do it." That plain statement got an uncaring gesture from Mr. Buttondown as well which prompted short Mr. Grinsalot to clap quickly as if something had actually happened while the ninja stood silently and said nothing.

The one that had to be Barchoke looked to Buzzcut again but all he got was a harsh dismissive wave as if he was taking his ball and going home. Of course he then proceeded to do precisely that by turning and stalking from the room looking like he wanted to flay the first person to cross his path. The main guy gave Bankor a nod and turned to go back into the room behind them as all the others started to break up, the ninja prying up one of the floor stones to disappear beneath it.

"Oh! This is very exciting," the short little mustachioed goblin said when he and the fat one came over to shake his hand. "I send to Beel, he help."

"How many things is he assigned to?" the fat one wheezed curiously.

"Oh. No worries," the happy one said quickly. "He's good. Besides he need," he said gesturing to Hugh. "Dragons very fierce, rawr!" he pantomimed with tiny clawed hands.

Bankor briefly introduced him to Overseers Alkrat and Slaggran only to then take their leave citing the need to get him up to speed. As the Overseers left in the other direction Bankor took him back the way they'd come in. At the door to the lift-from-Hell the goblin took out a tiny silver key and held out an empty hand as if waiting for something.

"Oh, right," Hugh said as his brain caught up and he fished Bankor's dagger back out again to hand it over. How he'd managed to pass that job interview was anyone's guess but it seemed to have worked.

"This key will be yours," the Overseer explained as they swapped what they had. "As you've seen, the lift is rather self-explanatory though I doubt you'll be using it much," Bankor said and Hugh had to keep himself from agreeing with that assessment. "From now on common protocol is for you to be referred to by your title, Taskmaster Hobson."

"Taskmaster?" he asked curiously. "I hadn't heard that Gringotts had a rank called Taskmaster, er, Overseer."

"Sir will do," Bankor said as he fiddled with his dagger, hesitating on putting it away for some reason. "It is actually a new rank and you're the second person to have it. Taskmasters are – well, tasked – with heading up areas of special interest. The other Taskmaster is Taskmaster Marsh, who oversees the Hogwarts Accounting Department.

"Because of the… importance of your particular charge – especially in relation to non-banking interests–," Bankor equivocated, "you'll be given less latitude than would otherwise be afforded to someone in your position and you'll be reporting to the Council directly. You'll still be in one of the highest ranking positions we have though."

For the first time since he and Bankor had started exchanging notes and letters the goblin wasn't making any sense.

"So exactly what task am I being charged with mastering?" Hugh asked curiously. "I was under the impression that it'd be record keeping."

"That was the original idea, yes," Bankor nodded. "The somewhat fluid nature of recent events has led us to focus more on other areas and it is this other area that we're now putting you in charge of. I take it that you've seen the _Weekend Prophet?"_

"No," he replied. "Working nights it's always seemed more of a bother than anything else."

"Ah, then there's a lot to catch up on," the goblin dithered. "The task that you've been set is to plan and oversee all aspects involving the first all-goblin settlement on the Isle of Gringotts. Seeing as you're rather well versed in above-ground life, Grand Overseer Barchoke thought that it would be a suitable job for your talents."

"He wants me to build a city?" Hugh asked feeling as if his brain had turned to mush.

"Well, he's never said how big he wants it but you'll have the entire island to use," Bankor said with a smile. "I suppose design will be the first step in the process, once the issue with the Hebridean Blacks is resolved of course."

"B-Blacks?" he stuttered. "There are dragons on this island?"

"A very recent development," the goblin explained. "Once the original protections keeping the local dragon population away were destroyed when we took the island it was only a matter of time before an amorous couple took an interest. I'm sure you and Mr. Weasley will have it sorted soon enough, the man really is quite diligent."

"Well," Hugh said, at a loss for any other words. "I look forward to meeting him."

Bankor fiddled with the dagger again and seemed to finally find what he wanted to say.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to apologize in advance for what I must say next but goblin sensibilities require something of me that human standards of civility find rather distasteful."

"Um… okay," he said, wondering how things could get any more distasteful what's already been heaped on his lap.

"After what was said in there today," his Overseer acquaintance said as he placed his dagger into his front suit pocket. "If you ever betray us, then I will be honor bound to kill you myself – and I'd very much like to avoid that."

.o0O0o.

Pushing the collective bad news aside she stood and walked to the window to try to find the soothing comfort that had thus far been denied her. Summers at Hogwarts had to be some of the best in the world, or so she'd always thought. Peace permeated the castle during those bright, warm days in ways that were simply impossible during the rest of the year when howling rain and winter storms lashed the walls from without and storming hormones and howling youths lashed them from within. Summer was the quiet respite that made the entire rest of the year possible… at least it was usually.

This summer had started just the same as all the others had, with a good bit of energetic travel to inform the families of newly eleven year old muggleborns about the school and what was involved in attending. It had always worked out better for her to do it that way than to sporadically approach the families throughout the year. Not only was it easier to get away from the school when there was nothing else going on – unlike in September when school's just started or in April and May when it's so close to O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s – but the families themselves were always much more open to the prospect of sending their child to a magical school that they would never get to see when it was presented to them in that more relaxed environment.

But while those trips to the muggle world had given her a wealth of research ideas, she hadn't been able to follow up on a single one of them like she had in years past because of the workings of Albus Dumbledore. She had always looked up to the man as a mentor, a personal hero, and of course a mental giant but now she had to admit that he was anything but that. Indeed, at times she wondered if Albus had gone insane and they had all been too blind to notice.

Unfortunately that cheerful possibility wasn't available to her either for the duplicity involved in keeping his deeds a secret pointed to a mechanical mind that had planned out everything from the beginning and had coldly examined every possible outcome of his actions. She'd been made an accomplice in this conspiracy, of course, as had all the others, but in the end she didn't know who she was infuriated with more: Albus for so brutally and repeatedly misusing their trust or with herself for being too naive to notice.

All this left her with a growing persistent ache in her stomach, a burning sensation in her chest, and the weight of the world on her shoulders. She would've felt more at ease trying to walk from here to London carrying the Knight Bus on her back. She'd say that if things got any worse she'd have to pay Poppy a call in the hospital wing to see if there was anything she could do but as things were that visit was going to be a surety.

Looking down from her office window she saw an oncoming storm bearing down on them that had nothing to do with the weather. Reflexively straightening her tartan robes as if wishing they were armor, she tried to imagine herself garbed in every scrap of dignity that their historic school ever had. Whatever dignity they may once have had lay in tatters though which left her with nothing but the weighted feeling of all that responsibility instead.

_'__It may be an uncomfortable and unwelcome weight,_' Minerva thought to herself as she left her office and walked briskly through the castle, _'but as Deputy Headmistress it's my duty to keep calm and soldier on. At least Albus saw fit to stay away today._'

As she reached the meeting of two hallways and a stairway leading down she cast a spell that caused a trio of wisp-like cats to shoot from her wand to dart off in different directions. Albus had created that spell, a variation on the Patronus Charm, he said, though she didn't know if it still worked the same against dementors now that it'd been altered to relay messages. It was the first time she'd actually had cause to use it so in a way it seemed fitting to do so to inform the Heads of the other Houses of the beginning of what may be – hopefully – the last day that Dumbledore spent at Hogwarts.

The more she'd thought about it though the more the man's insidious plan she'd been able to piece together. One private meeting with him had sent the Longbottoms and the Potters into hiding, and though they'd been tight-lipped about the reason why, it hadn't been hard to puzzle it out. It'd been a climate thick with fear, where more disappearances and deaths were reported by the day, and it didn't take a great wealth of knowledge to see that You-Know-Who was trimming branches off of some very fruitful family trees in order to benefit key supporters and gain more sway within the Ministry.

She hadn't been the only one to make the connection either. The able auror Alastor Moody had warned the great traitor, Sirius Black, that he'd likely be targeted as well. The boy had only laughed it off though saying that he had more to fear from his mother than he did from You-Know-Who. They should have seen the warning signs then, but perhaps Albus had.

The Potters and the Longbottoms were both wealthy, prominent families with long lineages that commanded respect in their community. It made a grotesque sort of sense for You-Know-Who to hack away those that disagreed with him in order to slant society to his side and give those that supported him more room to thrive… and if he could benefit by using death then why couldn't Dumbledore? With Sirius as the Potter's Secret Keeper, it was only a matter of time before something happened.

Despite what Severus may think of the subject she couldn't believe that Albus had directly planned for James and Lily to die or for Frank and Alice to be tortured so, that was a step too far for her to take. The boys' mysterious survival though could well have been something he had a hand in so it was possible that he'd planned to take advantage of deaths that he knew would happen and did nothing to stop. Why else would he have sent ever-loyal Hagrid to collect and care for the boy that night if it weren't to keep anyone else from looking too closely at the situation?

How he had managed to get his hands on the boy's money through shadowy dealings was troubling but had Neville not had an extended family to take care of him when his parents had been targeted, would Albus have done the same to him? The thought made the tight knot in her stomach churn and roil as if she were trying to digest a sharp rock.

As betrayed and troubled as she was though Minerva couldn't imagine how Hagrid was taking things. The man had yet to come back into the castle after the night Albus had told them what he'd done to the boy. She doubted that he even stuck his head out of his hut anymore and wondered if he'd be in any fit state to escort the first years from the station this year, not that she'd blame him if he wasn't.

How else was the man supposed to take it though, being used against the boy not once but twice? The sudden change away from approaching muggleborn families during the summer, foregoing a single mass mailing, and enlisting the gentle giant to escort Harry to Diagon Alley all looked like innocent changes when you took them one at a time but when you put them all together the reason for it was clear. Albus had orchestrated the whole thing not as an excuse to reintroduce Hagrid to the boy but to keep the boy ignorant of his wider wrongdoing.

Indeed it seemed as though Albus's had planned for that ignorance all the way back to the moment the Potters had died. Why else would he place the boy with those muggles if he hadn't wanted him to be completely uninformed about the wizarding world? Those muggles wouldn't have known the first thing about how their world worked, what his position in it would be, or any of the appropriate questions to ask concerning what the boy had in store for him so leaving him with them made sense in that regard.

It would've essentially put him in the same boat as the other muggleborns and she'd seen enough of them to know that simply seeing the magical world for the first time – not to mention being escorted there by a giant of a man – would've guaranteed that none of those bigger questions would have popped into Harry's mind at all. Hagrid was a remarkably caring person but what the boy had needed was a knowledgeable and experienced person there to introduce him to the magical world and inform him of what it all meant, and that was something that Hagrid wasn't equipped to do.

Minerva twitched her tartan robes around her once again as she reached the ground floor and headed for the front doors. She could've given him that proper introduction, she was sure of that. Perhaps not to every tiny little detail that the boy would've needed to know but at least she knew enough to know what questions to ask and that would eventually have led to that information, which was better than nothing. Those questions at Gringotts no doubt would've led to Lichfield eventually and then everything would've been done with by now, which was no doubt the reason why Albus had rearranged everything to keep it from happening.

The fact that it was all happening now only went to show that even the great Albus Dumbledore couldn't control everything for if there was one thing no one could contain was the sheer amount of chaos that children churned up. Seeing as the same boy was the one who led his friends into danger to find the Sorcerer's Stone, and may well have been the reason that issue exploded on them as well, it was almost enough for her to say that Albus had met his match.

It was strange to think that a twelve year old could be Dumbledore's downfall – or at least be the one to expose his flaws – but she couldn't say that it had come a moment too soon; if anything it may have come too late. Fiddling with the boy's finances had exposed Hogwarts to the goblins' grubby grasp and how they've been handling the Ministry didn't give her any hopes that their dealings with them would go any more smoothly. And worse, their trust in him about the Stone had been so completely misplaced that they'd allowed him to put them on the wrong side of the Ministry, the I.C.W., and the Board of Governors themselves.

It was hard to think of herself as a professional of any stripe when she'd allowed the headmaster to steer them so far wrong but resigning in outrage and allowing the entire school to collapse around him was simply off the table. Perhaps she could look at herself in the mirror again if she managed to right their listing ship and see it safely to harbor and the first step was to batten down and start bailing. The first thing she wanted to throw overboard though was Dumbledore himself for only then could Hogwarts even begin to really recover.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall!" a voice behind her called just as she hit the large double doors and she turned to see the second thing she wanted to throw over the side strut towards her. Gilderoy Lockhart was draped from head to toe in powdery blue robes that he must've thought matched his eyes and made his blond hair seem all the more striking. The man had been a chore to deal with as a child and in the day since he'd come to the castle Minerva hadn't seen anything to say that the man was anything but the boy writ large.

"You're just the person I was looking for, Minerva – Do you mind if I call you Minerva?" he asked with a smile that was too large not to be condescending.

Rather than speak she simply turned and walked out the door; she had much more important things to attend to than to babysit a self-aggrandizing, incompetent fool. Unfortunately he was right by her side a moment later yammering on like he'd been the masterful teacher and she the student who couldn't muster enough ability to crawl their way up to an Acceptable without a good bit of groveling rather than the other way around.

_'__What had Albus been thinking when he hired this man?'_ she wondered as they walked and he talked.

After she'd given that responsible anomaly, Percy Weasley, the go-ahead to form a Defense study group she'd felt a niggling sense of doubt. Perhaps Gilderoy had turned his life around, learned some hard lessons, and really dug in to accomplish all the things he wrote about in his books – people did change after all and some required practical teaching methods if they were to have any chance of overcoming great adversity and he could've been one of those. Nothing she'd seen thus far indicated any change from the pompous preening pansy he'd been before so now she had no doubts at all about the rightness of that decision at all.

"–So that took me to cheerful little Filius's office where he insisted on hearing about every one of my adventures," he said with a look that said that he got that treatment all the time and had her lengthening her stride and mentally measuring how much longer she had to be with him. "Naturally, I said that I'd be happy to provide him with a full set of my written work, complete with my new autobiography, _Magical Me,_ for a nominal fee but between you and me I think the old dog wanted to see the little tricks I've picked up along the way," the man winked in a way that had it hard to bite her tongue.

"I will say this for the man though," Gilderoy continued on in his inane and rapid way. "As soon as your message came in he knew that I was just the person for the job and said that no others would do, and he's quite right. I've dealt with people from all over the world and if there's one thing we need right now is to put our best foot forward."

She was forcibly reminded of the supposed student newspaper, _The Lockhart Ledger,_ that he had tried to start during his time at Hogwarts just to see his name in print. In an attempt to sway 'the public' to his cause, he'd even gone so far as to publish a first issue before seeking permission so that even if he failed he could still claim success. Looking ahead to the mass of milling men mostly in I.C.W. blue the other side of the gates Minerva hoped that this would be more than some puffed up press event because the last thing they needed was this flashy, phony, flim-flam man flapping his gums and making them look even worse than they already did.

"Professor!" a voice called from the crowd, rousing her from her thoughts.

"Hello!" Lockhart waved in return as if the whole thing were a parade in his honor. Perhaps ignoring him would make him leave?

"Good morning, Professor McGonagall," the familiar-looking man in auror robes said as they got closer.

"Gawain Robards, they let you become an auror?" she returned once she was close enough to match the face with a name and to say anything without having to shout. "I thought it more likely that you'd end up in prison."

"You remember everyone who's ever been in your class, don't you?" the man asked with a smile.

"Not quite everyone," Minerva replied well aware of her own shortcomings.

"There are those of us who set ourselves apart of course," Gilderoy interjected, preening as everyone's attention momentarily shifted to him.

"These would be our international guests, I presume?" she asked as she tapped the gates to undo the locks and open them.

"Yes," the auror said gesturing to the short man with a pointed black beard next to him. "This is their leader – um…"

"Jean-Olivier Delacour, Inspecteur Général Adjoint," the man said as he shook her hand. "I 'ave to say, Madame McGonagall, zat I 'ave been a long admirer of your work. When I get ze chance I weel 'ave to peek your brain about ze Animagus transformation zat you managed."

"I wish you well with that," she said in response as she coldly refused to introduce the unwanted nuisance at her side. "But I must warn you, I have family members that I've refused to discuss it with."

"I 'ave my ways to–"

"Gilderoy Lockhart," the blond buffoon beside her said, butting in and seizing the Frenchman's hand to shake it like he was somehow doing the man a favor. "Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League–" he crooned as the other man struggled and was finally able to snatch his hand away again, not that Gilderoy noticed, "–and five time winner of _Witch Weekly's_ Most Charming Smile Award. But I don't talk about that–" the smarmy man mused with an amused grin.

"–And I do not shake 'ands with ze Dark Force Defense League, 'Onorary Member or not," the Frenchman hissed. "Zey are a racist and bigoted organization responsible for ze most 'orible miseenformation eemaginable. 'Umanoid creatures 'ave a 'ard enough time being accepted without you making eet worse."

As Gilderoy's mouth sagged open dumbly she was more relieved than ever that there was no press in the crowd. She desperately wanted to smooth things over by saying that here at Hogwarts such things would not be tolerated but as things were she couldn't. While decent people didn't like it, Magical Britain was built on bigotry and run on racism against other magical creatures; one of the Founders of Hogwarts was even famed for it. What could anyone say to simply sweep that under the rug?

"That certainly wasn't in any of their pamphlets," Lockhart mumbled.

"You applied by pamphlet when you didn't know who they were?" she asked astonishedly.

"Well, you didn't know either," the man said dismissively, "and who cares what they do as long as it sounds good?"

"Obviously, the people they hurt care," Minerva said with a sharp gesture that she could only hope would silence the man as she finished the job of sweeping up in front of their guests. "It would seem plain to me that Mr. Lockhart does not adhere to any discriminatory views–"

"Merlin, no!" he interjected. "Everyone's welcome to buy my books. I even have quite a few up in my office that I can part with if any of you are interested," Gilderoy smiled.

"–Nor was he hired to spread any such misinformation," she inserted quickly, though she had to mentally add _'He was hired to spread completely different misinformation,_' for the sake of her conscience.

"Yes, I just so happen to be the most accomplished and famous adventurer in Britain," Gilderoy added, already getting started at his job. "For full details, see my published works."

Thankfully an old wizard beside Mr. Delacour had gotten his attention and whispered in his ear during the little speech so before the puffed up popinjay was finished the man was nodding in agreement.

"I suppose zese zings can 'appen," the visiting Frenchman said grudgingly. "'Ow you run your school ees none of our concern; our concern ees ze Stone."

"Quite so," she agreed, shooting a quelling look at her irritating tagalong that he couldn't fail to remember from his time in her class. "I was informed that a Ministry delegation would be with you. The letter from the Hogwarts Governors said that their arrival would be imminent."

"Zis Meenistry of yours," Mr. Delacour said as he withdrew a pocket watch to check the time, "zey like to make you wait." He snapped the watch shut again and added, "Ze goblins, we 'ave our deeferences, but zey were very punctual. Shall we get started with ze talk of 'ow to begin?"

"I was ordered to comply and fully intend to do so," Minerva stated, gesturing for them to enter as Gilderoy wandered to one side to try and engage some of the other wizards' attention. "I take it that you'll be want to talk to Professor Dumbledore directly?"

"Een time," he said dismissively without taking a step. "Eet is always best to talk to ze principle aftair we 'ave more eenformation. All we really 'ave right now is more een line with rumor zan fact. Zis fine man 'ere," Delacour said as he gestured to Robards, "'E suggest zat we start een ze dungeons and work our way up. Are zere really dungeons 'ere?"

"Yes," she answered, feeling more than a little awkward at standing around with a crowd of people at the gates, though she couldn't imagine feeling any more comfortable having them all parade along behind her. "Our potions class is taught out of them and they house one of the school Houses; Professor Snape would be the most knowledgeable about them and should be in the entry hall by now. You may wish to concentrate elsewhere though; Dumbledore had several of us devise protections for one section of the third floor corridor, though I can't say for sure if the Sorcerer's Stone was ever actually there."

"You knew 'e 'ad ze Stone?" the man asked disbelievingly.

"He told some of us that he had it," Minerva clarified, fighting against her dueling impulses to protect the image of the school and to be rid of Albus as soon as possible. "And he said that he intended to keep it safe, which is why he never showed it to us. With his positions and history with the Stone's creator though we were all led to believe that he'd taken the steps required to have it and that he was doing research. We had no reason to believe that the man had done so illegally until we saw it in the paper."

"Zere are some zat would not take such zings into account and 'ave you all in chains," Mr. Delacour said with a look. "Eet is fortunate for you zat I am not one of zem. Justice demands zat ze eentent be looked into. If what you say ees shown een questioning zen you 'ave – how you say, 'a bit of egg on your face'? – but zat is all. 'Ogwarts may look a beet of a fool, and extremely careless, but zere you go," he finished with a wave.

Her lips thinned at the characterization but knew under the circumstances it was probably the best she could hope for. Hogwarts had been around for a thousand years – give or take a few decades since no one was really sure when it had started. Surely it had looked foolish before now and had successfully lived it down.

Delacour exchanged some brief words with the wizards next to him and motioned towards the castle. One man pulled out his wand and held it aloft as its tip glowed with a bright red light while the other did the same with blue. There was jostling as parts of the crowd split off and the wand-lit wizards slowly started towards the school leading ambling trails of wizards behind them.

"We weel need to talk with ze Meenistry wizards een charge of your Owlery as well," he said as parts of the crowd began to sidestep Lockhart and leave, his comment causing her to look to Mr. Robards for information. The castle was a large place with so few people in it but had the Ministry been sending shifts of aurors into it she was sure to have noticed.

"Er – We didn't have anyone in the Owlery," the auror answered curiously.

"Is zis what you call security?" he asked Robards, seemingly at a loss. "'E could 'ave seent ze Stone anywhere in ze world by now. 'Ow could you give 'im access to owls?"

"I can appreciate the challenge that you face in getting to the bottom of this," Minerva said again feeling torn by her conflicting sensibilities. "I feel compelled to mention though that it has yet to be definitively shown that Professor Dumbledore ever really had the Stone in the first place."

"You just admitted zat 'e–"

"–That he made claims, and that those claims were taken as true at the time but the underlying truth of that claim was never demonstrated," she said, fearing that the intense little man had gotten several steps ahead of himself. "If you wish to imprison him, imprison him for what he's done, not what you think he's done. Likewise, the Headmaster has claimed that the Stone itself has been destroyed.

"That is also a claim that has not been substantiated," she continued when the Frenchman's eyes bulged. "As such, Hogwarts cannot be certain that the Stone was ever really here in the first place, or if it is still here now. Any sensible inquiry though would retain the possibility that this has been some sort of elaborate ruse conjured up for some ulterior purpose," she said, though for the life of her she couldn't imagine what that purpose could be.

"But even if all that you suspect is true, if he did have the Stone here, limiting his access to owls wouldn't have done any good," she explained. "Hogwarts is home to the largest population of house-elves in the country. Had he wished to send the Stone anywhere at any time, any one of them could've done it for him."

"Oh, zis is 'orible," Mr. Delacour said as he put a hand across his face, seeming to catch only the last part of what she said.

"Not to worry," Gilderoy smiled warmly as he came back to them. "I was only gone a moment."

"Even without owls or house-elves it may have been impossible to keep him from doing it anyway," Robards added. "The Headmaster's got himself a phoenix and we still haven't figured out if there's anything that could keep it contained."

The Frenchman's head whipped around so quickly she wouldn't have been surprised to hear his neck snap.

"The Moutohora Macaws have a fine phoenix named Sparky," Gilderoy said with a toothy grin. "Magnificent animal. They wanted my help finding him a–"

"'E 'as a phoenix?" Delacour asked, shock written all over his face. Rather than let them answer though he held his wand to his throat and bellowed, "CLAUDE! MANUEL! STOP!"

"What on earth is the matter?" Minerva asked, hoping to get things under some semblance of control. If this was how things were going to be then it would be a very hectic experience, one in which she could only hope that they'd be done before the start of term.

"Ze tower of Nichola Flamel, eet was a preeson zat ze goblins guarded," he explained in a normal voice.

"–Ah, yes. I read all about that," Lockhart boasted.

"Some goblins died to ze other goblins, yes," Delacour continued, "but many more were seemply… blown up! Over a 'undred, including females and cheeldren, dead een great booming blasts," he said dramatically.

_"__Goblinnogoblining,_ the famous goblin-exploding spell," Gilderoy said, probably inventing the thing out of whole cloth. "I'd recognize it anywhere. A pity I wasn't there, I know just the counter-charm that could've saved them."

"And what does this have to do with us?" she asked Mr. Delacour.

"Zere was a phoenix in ze tower zat disappeared as soon as we found eet," he said quickly. "With ze connection Dumblydore 'as to Flamel, with zis eenformation we must hold him suspect."

"No matter what you think he's done, you can't honestly propose that Professor Dumbledore spends his time blowing up goblins," Minerva replied dumbfoundedly. Of all the unthinkable things the man's been accused of this one was categorically impossible. "As horrible as the prospect is, what would be the point?"

"Well, it'd certainly keep them from talking," Lockhart smiled as her stomach roiled. She couldn't believe it.

"We 'ave 'ad a deefficult time finding eenformation on zis because all ze goblins end up dead."

Robards whipped out his wand and sent several quick wisps of white smoke out in several directions. Had Albus shared that spell with the Ministry? Strange that she'd be concerned with that now but for some hazy reason that odd detail seemed important. She tried in vain to start her mind going again but it didn't seem to be working. Could it be true? Could it even be possible? How could she – how could anyone – be so completely wrong about someone that they miss that?

"Unfortunately, I've seen it before, Professor," her good student Gawain said in a way that made her wish that she'd chosen him to be a Prefect in spite of all his time in detention. "The darkest criminals have been known to go for years without leaving any solid evidence behind them because all of their accomplices die when we get close. I've seen the Professor lately though and he's not the type," he said reassuringly.

"I weel be ze judge of zat," Mr. Delacour said determinedly as the leaders of the ambling lines he'd called out to returned and he went to fill them in.

"Still," Robards continued as other aurors came into sight, "we can't leave anything to chance just to be safe. The school will have to be checked just in case the Headmaster decides to take the castle down with him."

Minerva nodded numbly as he turned to the other aurors and she looked at the castle that'd been her home for close to forty years. With the Stone opening them up to Ministry critique and the Board of Governors' wrath, exposing their reputation to ridicule around the world, and that's not to mention the problems they had keeping their doors open and what the goblins were likely to do on the boy's behalf, perhaps Albus truly was trying to destroy Hogwarts.

But why would he do such a thing? Certainly he was getting on in years; he'd just past his one hundred and eleventh birthday not far gone, though he never made a fuss about it. Could that be it, she wondered? Was he getting to the point where the inevitable end was in sight and he simply couldn't cope? Was all the destructive behavior a mad attempt to bring down what he couldn't take with him or were they attempts to stubbornly cling to life in an attempt to gain eternity?

"You know, when I took this job I thought it'd be frightfully dull but things have certainly gotten exciting around here haven't they?" Gilderoy remarked as he practically bounced his way to her. "Dumbledore would have to get up pretty early in the morning to get one over on me though," he said with a toothy smile, "so there's really no need to fear at all. If these Nervous Nellies want to waste their time that's all up to them but I think I'll take a little walk into town."

That cowardly remark from the self-serving clown instantly had her mind to snap back into focus. He was walking away his responsibility to the school just in case the unlikely event of the unthinkable happening actually occurred, and when it most likely didn't he'd be in a prime location to run to the _Prophet_ with the suspicion and take credit for it not happening. She'd be damned if she'd let that happen on her watch though.

"Not so fast, Mr. Lockhart," Minerva said quickly as her hand latched onto him with a vice-like grip. "Mr. Robards!" she called, practically pulling the phony professor over to them. "When you and the rest of your team go to check the castle, I insist that you take Professor Lockhart in with you."

"M-m-me?" the flummoxed professor asked. "That-that wasn't a part of the job description," he said uncertainly.

"Now, Gilderoy, this is no time for jokes," she said with a hawkish look. "You wouldn't want anyone to think that you don't take your responsibilities to the school seriously, do you? Surely the most accomplished and publicized adventurer in Britain would know that the Defense Against the Dark Arts position extended to anything and everything that involved the defense of the school and its students. And didn't you just say that you knew this counter-charm?"

"I-I-I–," Lockhart stammered.

"I wouldn't want to step on any toes at Hogwarts," Robards said, settling the issue. "After you, Professor," he said to the man, motioning for him to lead the way.

"Don't worry, Gilderoy," she said as she fought to keep a smile off her face. "Just think of what a great adventure this will be."

And with that, Little Boy Gilderoy, the one who had always wanted praise for being surprisingly mediocre, looked like he was going to be sick.

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** As always, thanks for reading.


	34. Bamboozled

**AN****:** A special thank you to the good friend I've never met, Deathday Party Planner, for allowing me to vent some stuff that was keeping me from writing; we're all in your debt. I'd also like to give a shout-out to the guest reviewer, Aditi, for being my 2,500th review. Usually I like to strike up a conversation and send a funny snippet from the chapter I'm working on to those who hit those big round numbers for me, but alas, that's impossible with a Guest.

On that note, let me encourage all you Lurkers out there to register for an account. I started off as one myself and lost none of my anonymity from getting one. It actually makes keeping up with what stories you're reading that much easier and you never know when some oddball writer, like me, will want to send you prizes in the mail or respond to your review. 3,000th review is right around the corner.

Anyway, this is the longest chapter I've written and we've got a lot to cover, so let's get on with this.

.o0O0o.

It was still short of noon when the portkey from the Ministry arrived at the Hogsmeade station. When they reached the road that would take them to the school though Lucius had to wonder if his threatening letter had been too threatening or had not been threatening enough, for where there should have been carriages ready to carry them up to the school there were no carriages to be seen. It certainly wasn't the reception they should have had but he knew who to blame.

He was content to let Cornelius mutter under his breath that it was Delacour's doing to slight him somehow since getting that frustration out now would no doubt make things easier to manage later on but it was an annoying blemish to what he tried to see as a victory march. In truth, this had to do with Dumbledore. The petty slight was no way for a vanquished foe to behave in a civilized world but if this was the kind of antics he could expect from the man then perhaps it was good that he was gone from the game.

For years the two of them had circled each other, probing for any vulnerability, looking for ways to trip the other one up; he had suffered defeats and setbacks, true, and gave as good as he got, but never did he think that it would come to today, though he'd hate to think that he'd be so petulant if he had been the one to lose. Weak enemies made you weak as well though so if goblin viciousness was what the old propaganda against them made it out to be then perhaps it was a good thing that the opponent that'd come to replace Dumbledore was a cunningly erratic player, for as his father had always said, _'the only thing worse than having weak enemies was having none at all._'

Lucius supposed that he should have seen this response coming though for it really did make a Dumbledorean kind of sense. The man had lost, and just as importantly he knew that he'd lost. Though the old man may still have a trick or two left to play, only a fool would think that he actually had a chance to return later on, and that meant that the only thing he could hope to achieve now would be to shape how the game would be played after he was gone.

Hogwarts was Dumbledore's last bastion of defense, the last area of the world he could influence and control and one where he was surrounded by his closest associates. Naturally he would want to hold onto it for as long as possible, and though he had the votes on the Board to remove him whenever he wished, it suited him to keep the man there as he exerted the kind of pressure he needed to splinter the school and reshape it in his image.

His letter had been the essential first step, a heavy hatchet fall to cleave the professors away from the man and leave him without support. The lack of carriages to greet them said that Dumbledore had not only seen such a threat coming but had planned for it. No doubt careful and intense politicking has been going on within the castle to bolster the teachers' loyalty to him and his vision of Hogwarts – to the legacy he wished to leave behind – to the extent that by now the professors may well be willing to call his bluff and refuse to abandon the headmaster so that he'd be forced to either back down or face the consequences of trying to hire an entirely new staff when there were only nine days left until the start of term.

He wondered if Dumbledore had even bothered to inform them of what the letter entailed. If he had been in the man's place and had his goal he certainly wouldn't have, and he would have planned for more frustrations to visit him along the way: locked gates to keep them out so they'd look impotent in front of the international crowd and perhaps getting the flock of post owls to come down and harass them as they looked for another way inside. It was a pity that the Founders put so much power into one person's hands, at least when that person wasn't him.

Dumbledore was trying to goad them, to aggravate them, to frustrate them enough that they'd treat the staff harshly. Then, even if they did manage to pry them away from the hem of his robes and take him away they'd hate them all the more for it and cling to his muggle-minded ideology that had them embrace the dross and dreck of the world. Countering that would be tricky and take time but surely the other accusations against Dumbledore would come into play eventually. And, no matter how devoted to the man they were, they were still human beings with interests and goals of their own to see to.

Lucius knew that he should have reached out to Severus for more information about what was going on behind the scenes but one reason he didn't was that for as long as the old man was still in the castle – and it did suit him to keep him there for a little while longer – he didn't want to give him a reason to doubt the other man's loyalty. He had been a good and reliable font of information during his time as potions master, a trustworthy spy against Dumbledore. He had even become a genuine friendly acquaintance of a sort – far more than Marsh, Crabbe, Goyle or any of the others ever had.

The lingering issue of what to do with his son kept intruding into his thoughts in a way that he knew would poison any attempt at communication though and that had stopped him as well.

_'There should be an opportunity today to get a quick word with him about all of it,_' he thought to himself as the dirt and gravel of the hard-packed road crunched beneath his feet. _'The man's waspish cynicism is entertaining enough when it stings others but perhaps it's just the thing I need to figure out how to remedy Draco's faults._'

"Something's not right," the large, deep-voiced black auror beside the Minister said, drawing him from his thoughts. "I don't like this. Where is everyone?"

Lost in thought, Lucius hadn't seen the boar-topped gates until they were already within sight. To his shock they stood open, unguarded, and without a milling mass of I.C.W. wizards in front of them. What was Dumbledore playing at with this? What was the gain? It really didn't make any sense, Dumbledorean or otherwise.

On his advice Cornelius had the man, Kingsley, send someone ahead to find out what was going on as they continued. Reaching the gates in time to see their man pass through the castle's double doors opened a view of an equally deserted castle grounds to them. There was an eerie quiet that hung over the place, it was as if every living person that was supposed to be there had disappeared in an instant, not even leaving their clothes behind.

They were halfway to the castle itself when the Minister timidly suggested waiting where they were but the auror they'd sent ahead picked that moment to reemerge with three other figures behind him. Two of them remained at the double doors: one a tall and tartan, the other short and round with I.C.W. written all over him, they made an odd dichotomy that he struggled to piece together. What was it, a show of strength? Why would Dumbledore invite them in and cooperate? The only way that could possibly help him now would be if–

Lucius's stomach plummeted as he felt the aurors' presence pressing in around him like the bindings of an Incarcerous.

_'It's a trap,_' he thought as he quickly looked for a way out of this, but it was impossible and he knew it. All of his scheming had arranged for him to be here at this very moment and if he made an excuse to leave now it'd not only confirm any accusation against him Dumbledore might make but it'd also be impossible to get the momentum he had back if the old man had nothing to say. Was he really going to risk everything he'd worked for, everything he stood to gain, just on the chance that some trick of Dumbledore's could turn this around on him?

_'No, he this is his doing, not mine,_' Lucius thought as his hand tightened on his cane. _'It was some scheme of his that got too grand and led to his fall; he can't turn this back on me._'

He found no comfort in the thought though because for once, now that the stakes were well and truly raised, he didn't know quite how firmly he stood. Was it possible? There'd been plots and plans over the years that the man had somehow foiled, whether by mistake or design he couldn't know. Did Dumbledore know enough to trace something back to him? Did he have proof? Had he taken the plush prison he'd provided him with and turned it into a snare set to trap him, using himself as the bait?

_'Is that what this is, Dumbledore?'_ Lucius asked himself as he eyed the castle and approaching aurors. _'Some bluff? A coy ploy to vanquish the man that vanquished you? It won't work,_' he smirked with growing assurance as his hand relaxed on the pommel of the cane that held his wand. _'I'm a better player than you are, Albus. It'll take more than you to remove me from the game, and I won't allow you won't trick me into removing myself._'

"Minister Fudge," the salt-and-pepper haired auror from the castle saluted, with an additional nod to Kingsley, before falling in beside them. "I didn't expect to see you here yourself, sir."

"What happens at Hogwarts is a concern for the whole country," Cornelius said as if there were anyone else that might act as a fawning bureaucrat looking for his favor. In truth he was glad that Madam Bones had been called away to attend to some escalating matter in the muggle world and Dolores now had other duties to attend to. Bones was far too likely to ask penetrating questions for his tastes and Umbridge was only equipped to make a mess of things.

"Where is everyone?" that Kingsley man asked the other auror. "Why have the men been pulled from the gates?"

"I had to remove them from when we had to secure the school," he said promptly. "The Deputy Inspector General was afraid that Professor Dumbledore would do something drastic."

"Drastic? What do you mean drastic?" the Minister asked as their lead auror looked on curiously.

"He had reason to believe that Dumbledore would try to blow up the school," the man said without hesitation and Lucius had to admit that he was intrigued. "We've seen nothing to support the suspicion but he'll be able to tell you more about why he thought it necessary."

"Oh, well then…"

"My men are still inside," the auror continued with an eye to his most immediate superior. "I've positioned them near the headmaster's office and on the third floor corridor while we were waiting for more men to continue further. There may not be a cerberus in there any longer but you can never be too careful."

"Minister, permission to use part of your escort to join them in their efforts?" Kingsley's deep voice asked somewhat reassuringly.

"A-as long as you leave us some, I guess," Cornelius said in a shocked stupor.

The aurors wasted no time divesting them of most of their escort and running off back to the castle. Even though the two guards they had kept their distance the Minister pitched his voice low nevertheless and leaned over to ask, "Who's the Deputy Inspector General and what's on the third floor?"

"I believe the Deputy Inspector General is the Frenchman with the long title, Delacour, that you've been talking about," Lucius said patiently as they closed the gap to the large double doors. "If he has reason to believe that Dumbledore may be irrational and violent I think we should listen to what he has to say. As to what's on the third floor," he continued as he drew upon the information that Marsh had provided, "it may be nothing now but unless I miss my guess that'll be where Dumbledore hid the Sorcerer's Stone."

Cornelius contemplated that a moment before fastening on his politician's smile.

"Mr. Delacour, it's good to see you again," the Minister said falsely when they arrived. "I hope we didn't keep you waiting too long. Our departure was delayed by a growing muggle concern."

"Not at all, Meenister Fudge," the short man at the double doors said in the same political manner. "Madame McGonagall 'as been most forthcoming and very accommodating," he said in glowing terms that made Lucius wonder what McGonagall's motive was as Cornelius asked him about the security concerns he had. The man was presumptuous, there was no doubt about that, and ignorant of the way they did things in Britain, but it was amusing to hear him lay out his reasons to suspect Dumbledore of arranging a goblin genocide.

"Ah, yes, Monsieur Malfoy," Delacour said as he took his hand when the Minister introduced him and called him a close friend and advisor. "I weesh to extend ze 'eartfelt appreciation of ze Eenternational Confederation of Weezards to ze Board of Governors for permeeting zis search of 'Ogwarts. I know 'ow much ze school must prize eets ancient secrets."

"As anyone would," he agreed smoothly, "but we prize our good name more. The Board of Governors is shocked and appalled by Dumbledore's actions and considers it a terrible misuse of the trust we've placed in him."

"Zat was Madame McGonagall's sentiment as well," Delacour said with a polite smile that was difficult to read.

Lucius turned to his former teacher to ask, "Did I hear tell that we had a cerberus in a school full of children?".

"We did indeed, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said with perhaps a hint of humility wafting through her rigidly stony exterior. "Though that particular protection was intended to frighten students away from the area, there were adequate safeguards on those protections so that they would be nonlethal. The other obstacles between them and where the Stone was supposedly being kept were all designed to delay, incapacitate, or contain any would-be intruder while the Headmaster was alerted."

"And why wasn't the Board of Governors informed of this?" he asked, enjoying the position of power he had over her.

"Since the Board communicates directly with the Headmaster and our current Headmaster has been sitting on the Board for more than ten years, we assumed that you did know," she answered immediately. "I'm prepared to give a general report on our security measures to the Board whenever you wish, though there are still some particulars that're known only to the individual professors who designed them; Professor Snape was particularly resistant to give his up."

Lucius smiled as her purpose became clear.

"Perhaps once we're finished here," he said instead as he made the mental note to evaluate later whether she was seeking to replace Dumbledore out of her own ambition or to insure that the man's ideology continued after he was gone. "There wouldn't happen to be anything else that the Board might find troubling, is there?" he couldn't help but add.

McGonagall hesitated a moment before answering.

"Our last Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirrell, left under some… unusual circumstances, that have never been fully explained," she said eventually. "It was widely rumored that he attempted to steal the Sorcerer's Stone only to die in the attempt. Given the safeguards we had employed I took this to be nothing more than childish speculation at best, and though I never saw him again, I can't dismiss the much more likely possibility that he was simply dismissed. When asked about it, the Headmaster only said that he had taken care of the situation."

"Ah," Lucius said, leaving that single syllable hanging in the air in a way that'd give her no closure on the topic. Turning to Delacour he said, "How far have you gotten in your search and questioning?"

"We 'ave not gone far," the man said quickly with a look at McGonagall that spoke volumes about what the man didn't know. "Aftair ze men from ze Meenistry checked ze first several floors my men 'ave been concentrating on zis eentryway and ze dungeons," he said, gesturing inside to the men in blue robes who were busy checking the walls and sconces; there were even some being levitated towards the ceiling. "Besides for ze eenformation zat Madame McGonagall provided off ze record we 'ave waited for you before we questioned anyone. Would you prefer to do all ze questioning with you now or weel ze Board be conducting eets own eenvestigation?"

"I'm sure that we'll be doing our own at some point, though we may sit in on a few interviews, if that's alright with you," Lucius demurred with a polite smile. "The Board's main concern is getting your investigation completed before the start of term so that it doesn't impact the school year. The other Governors and I would appreciate any information that you'd be willing to share with us though."

"You will be finished by then, won't you?" Cornelius asked as if feeling himself being excluded for too long and desperate to show that he was still in charge of something.

"Zis place ees bigger and more complicated zan the Tower of Nichola Flamel so eet's a tall order," Delacour said, furrowing his brow in thought. "Eef we could 'ouse our eenvestigators 'ere rather zan going back and forth every day eet would speed up ze process since we could work all ze time. Zat would be up to Monsieur Malfoy, of course," the man said, offering up a suggestion that actually played into his hands.

"I'm sure that Professor McGonagall would be happy to have the Gryffindor dorms prepared for your men, though I suppose you would want to search them first," he replied sagely before turning to Dumbledore's Deputy Headmistress. "You'd be willing to escort some of his men there and seeing to their needs, wouldn't you, Professor?"

"Of course," she smiled in a way that screamed that she hated having to take orders from him. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get right to it," the woman said before primly taking her leave, spiky waves of frustration seeming to emanate off her as she went.

"Before we begin, Deputy Inspector General," Lucius said in a quieter manner, thinking that there was no time like the present to start to draw the man to their side. "The Minister and I have a somewhat related and rather sensitive subject to talk to you about."

"Ze Eenternational Confederation of Weezards commends ze small step zat both sides 'ave taken to deescalate ze growing tension in Britain and 'opes zat both sides will continue zat process through to a peaceful resolution," the Frenchman said in full official blather without missing a beat. "Sadly, unteel such time zat both parties agree to a 'earing under ze binding arbitration agreem–"

"The Ministry never agreed to–" Cornelius tried to interrupt.

"–Gentlemen, please," he cut in with a put upon air as if he honestly only wished to help. "Unfortunately, Mr. Delacour, there isn't an agreement that covers this because – while I cannot say that it doesn't involve the goblins – it has large political ramifications for us and I've just learned that it lies at the heart of your investigation."

"Ze Eenternational Confederation of Weezards is a neutral organization and does not weesh to be unduly involved with ze political affairs of member countries," the man said by way of a rote response.

"And that's a commendable goal, to be sure," Lucius agreed, "but you're already involved simply by being here and will be further entangled once word of why you agreed to delay your request for Dumbledore's extradition becomes public."

"What ees zis you are talking about?" the short man asked, his curiosity finally breaking through that official defensive wall. "We only agreed to wait for zis opportunity to search and question zose responsible and for–"

"–The well-being of a child, yes," he finished for him. "And I'm afraid that it's that particular child that may cause trouble for us."

"You can't mean Harry Potter?" the Minister asked shocked.

"I'm afraid so, Cornelius," Lucius said in a way that he hoped would come across as caring parent, though he knew he always missed the mark on that. "I thought it best not to raise the issue until now because it has to do with all three of our institutions."

"'Ow is zis?" the Frenchman asked, looking curiously concerned.

"I'm sure that in your talks that the Minister informed you just how famous that young Mister Potter is here and the important position he'll have one day," he said by way of reminding him.

"Ze 'ereditary system of yours, yes," the man said dismissively. "What of eet?"

"It extends in part to the Hogwarts Board of Governors as well, though at least we can vote to expel members if their behavior proves too egregious," Lucius explained. "As it happens, Mister Potter is one of the rare individuals who not only has a seat waiting on him in the Wizengamot but on the Board as well, which may have been why his family was targeted during the war in the first place," he said in order to draw it all together for the foreigner.

"What Professor McGonagall said about Dumbledore sitting on the Board for so long is true," he continued. "What she failed to mention though is that it's Mister Potter's seat that he's been using this entire time, so our two concerns are now even more entwined since he's used this illegally gained position in order to serve himself and steal the Stone."

"Eef indeed ze Stone was ever 'ere," Delacour groused. "Zere seems to be debate on zat and ze goblins 'ave not been good at deegging up eenformation."

"Goblin secrecy is a concern for all of us," Lucius said, trying to slyly slide the other man over into their camp only to be rebuffed with a look that said he wasn't having it. _'This man's certainly not making this easy,_' he thought. _'No wonder Fudge wasn't able to make any headway on him._'

"As luck would have it," he continued changing tactics, "I happen to have gained a bit of information that I must ask you to keep away from our friends at the bank."

"About ze Stone?" Delacour asked skeptically. "'Ow could zat 'appen?"

"Through someone who works for them but is afraid to come forward because they fear goblin reprisal," Lucius answered sympathetically, hoping that this token sign of trust would do what insinuation could not. "From what this person says they can be very vicious behind the scenes but it was information they thought that we absolutely had to know."

The little man played with the point of his beard as he thought it over.

"If this is the same man, he's provided Lucius with information before," Cornelius helpfully added in a way that seemed to lessen their chances of success.

The Frenchman eyed them both before answering.

"Ze goblins weel 'ave no way to know what I find 'ere or 'ow," Delacour said quickly. "And ze men staying 'ere means zey weel 'ave no way to find out unless I tell zem. So what ees zis eenformation?" he asked in an imperious way that Lucius simply had to admire coming from such a small man.

He leaned in and pitched his voice lower to confide in them a horrible truth.

"This source told me that the theft of the Stone was revealed when the Gringotts goblins got access to a Hogwarts student's mind–"

"Merlin's beard!" Cornelius exclaimed.

"–And from what they saw they were convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Stone had not only been stolen but was indeed here," he continued conspiratorially. "The protections McGonagall went on about were breached not once but twice, that the Stone was obtained, and that this Professor Quirrell was indeed killed – or at least grievously injured."

"Quel désastre!" Delacour joined the Minister in his fright. "Why would zey not tell me zis?"

"Because goblin justice is very different than ours, or so my source tells me," Lucius replied. "Once they make their decision about who's to blame they don't bother with trifles like truth or providing proof to people. They may also have an even deeper reason to hide this from us, just like McGonagall has."

"What do you mean?" Cornelius asked at a loss.

"The student they examined was Harry Potter," he explained, "and McGonagall – if she knows of his involvement – would naturally want to protect him as his Head of House."

The Minister's mouth sagged open and the Frenchman covered his face with his hand as if just now realizing just what a tangled mess the whole thing really was.

"I weel 'ave to talk to 'eem," Delacour said exhaustedly.

"You can't drag him into this again," the Minister scolded the man. "The boy's twelve years old."

"And he's had a very rough life," Lucius added. "Did you not see the _Weekend Prophet_ today?"

"I do not need ze deestraction of your newspapers," the man said dismissively as he massaged his brow, effectively smashing any hopes of swaying the man through a _Prophet_ propaganda campaign.

"There was a weekend one today?" Cornelius asked him instead.

"Some of the Ministry employees started to arrive with them when you and Madam Bones were distracted with that muggle concern," he replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if that had to deal with him too. Apparently Dumbledore made sure that the boy's home life was rather monstrous. The public may be inclined to respond in kind."

"That's ghastly," the Minister said to one bit or another. "As soon as he's out of the boy's life we should put him with a proper family."

"That certainly would be for the best," Lucius smiled, thinking of all the possibilities that would bring, though for the first time he did regret having to rid himself of his first child simply because it was a girl. Putting that aside he turned to Delacour and said, "The boy wouldn't have anything useful to add I'm afraid. The last thing my source said they extracted from him was Dumbledore telling him that the Stone had been destroyed."

"Zat is ze same as Madame McGonagall told us zat 'e told 'er," the man nodded before quickly waving it all away. "Ze plural of anecdote ees not data and none of zat is on ze record. Ze people 'ere would know more about what weent on zan any leetle boy; I am sure zey weel suffice," he declared before snapping and gesturing for a young man carrying a satchel bulging with quills and parchment to attend him.

"Since your men are already heavily involved with searching the dungeons, might I suggest that we question Professor Snape first?" he said, taking the opportunity to offer a sensible suggestion so the Frenchman would get used to taking them without thought.

"Absolument," Delacour replied quickly. "One moment," he added before turning to blather to boy next to him in French for a while before sending him off elsewhere for some unknown reason.

Being so thoroughly excluded had Lucius's hand tighten on the handle of his cane again and thinking of all the information he just missed out on for not knowing the blasted foreign tongue. He was British though so it'd be undignified to speak anything else. Having to hear it was a rudeness he simply had to accept he supposed. The man was French after all.

.o0O0o.

The tiny flame flickered and flared as he dropped the last remaining tip of parchment into the stone bowl to burn. When the fire went out he worked his pestle to grind the small pile of ash into a fine black powder, further pulverizing the message he'd been sent. Using magic for this would've been quicker but with all the intrusive wizards buzzing about the castle one couldn't be too careful.

Upending the mortar to empty the ground ash into a well of black ink, Severus couldn't help but seethe about what he did for love. The man had no right to invoke her name or use her death in that way, no matter what his reasons for doing it were or how right the cause. As much as he may loathe the boy for being who he was he couldn't blame the mother for it, for as much as he had tried it hadn't worked; he knew that he only had himself to blame.

It'd been too many years of studying by himself, too many years rooting for different teams, and too many snide comments made to run off her other friends so that he might better enjoy their time together alone. Saying the word 'mudblood' after years of that was just the final straw, the final piece of the puzzle to show her that the future he offered her had held nothing that she valued. It would've been all too easy for that toe-rag to smarm his way into her good graces by badmouthing him to her face while going behind her back to gloat to his friends about how he'd been the one to get her.

Still, he wasn't about to let his disgust of the father detract from his duty or let his anger at what the old man did to the child she spawned distract from his chance to take his vengeance upon the man who murdered the woman that the girl had grown to be. At least the old man upstairs had the presence of mind to ask for the right thing – that he conceal the truth of the Dark Lord's survival – and not that he accept that his leaving the boy in Petunia's hands had been the best thing for him, for it certainly wasn't.

The boy may be the malformed spawn of his enemy but that didn't mean that he couldn't have been everything that his father was not. He had seen enough potions start to turn to know what possibilities each failing potion offered if care was taken reinforce a misstep in the proper way and coax its development in order to bring about an alternate result. The last thing you should do though is simply throw as many malignant influences as possible into the mix and that was all Petunia was good for.

Dumbledore had let her mishandle the boy to the extent that he couldn't even see a diluted, polluted vestige of what his mother had once been still left within him. The reason why the man would want the boy to come out that way was clear: he wanted him to be even more dull and ignorant than his father; an unthinking, uncaring tip of the spear, a weapon to be thrust into the Dark Lord's side when the time came for him to do so. The Headmaster didn't care for the boy any more than he had for Lily Evans or James Potter; it was the prophecy he cared for, nothing more.

There was rap on the door and Severus capped the inkwell and gave it a swirl before setting it on his desk next to this morning's _Weekend Prophet_. It wasn't enough to suffer through insufferable know-it-alls and delirious dunderheads of every kind but now he had to handle the increasingly intrusive international irritations as well. Making his way to the office door he wondered what required his attention this time: a loose rock in the wall, a moldy old book, or perhaps a portrait that didn't like being prodded?

Whipping open the door he was unsurprised to come face-to-face with a boy who looked closer to fifteen than twenty, no matter how many of those ridiculous individual hairs he grew and tried to string together on his upper lip to make himself seem older. If he'd come because yet another person had locked themselves out of the Slytherin common room again he was going to have to curse someone.

"What is it now?" Severus asked with a look guaranteed to inspire fear in any native child.

"Ve haf foundt a room at da back ov da clazroom down da hall," the boy replied in his heavily accented English.

"That room has been set aside for my own personal stores," Severus informed him. "What of it?"

"Da room is empty," the boy noted, showing the level of intellect he's come to expect from him.

"As are my personal stores," he said, waiting on him to put the two together.

Extending the arm that held the door, he gave the boy a view of the same boxes and crates that had filled his office the last several times he had knocked.

"My stores were arranged to be sold well before your arrival in the country made delivery of them impossible," Severus said simply. "They have nothing to do with any Stone."

"I vas toldt ve vould haf to search dem anyvay," the boy continued. "Your ovvice and rooms too; ve can search dem ven you are in questioning."

He wanted to spew vitriol at the insolent boy for his presumption but it wouldn't have done any good. Just like with his dealings with the bank, Dumbledore had placed him on the wrong side of everything and it was up to him to find a way out. If that required blaming it all on the Headmaster then so be it; Severus couldn't say that it wasn't deserved.

"If even one ingredient goes missing," he said while staring down his hooked nose at the boy in a way that finally got an uncomfortable reaction. "If so much as a quill gets misplaced or if the potion I'm working on is disturbed in any way, you will be held personally responsible for its loss… and the goblins those stores belong to are not known for their lenience."

The boy scurried back down the hall with his tail between his legs making Severus feel that he could leave his office with the irritation he felt momentarily lessened. He didn't like people touching his things and the thought of a bunch of strangers riffling through his office made his skin crawl. Trying to leave that all behind him he made his way through scurrying crowds in I.C.W. blue and towards the entry hall, where even if he didn't find any peace at least he'd be able to get away from all these people.

"True, that's an occupational hazard for someone as famous as me," an unctuous voice oozed into the hallway from a spare upperlevel classroom. "The five time winner of _Witch Weekly_'s Most Charming Smile Award is no stranger to someone trying to ensnare him, believe you me. If I had a galleon for every time someone tried to slip me a Love Potion – well, I'd be even more well off than I already am!"

It was with great difficulty that he forced his feet to move because for of all the things he held against the Headmaster at this moment, having to leave Lockhart free to wander his dungeons unwatched was something he couldn't forgive. The fact that the man was here at all was yet another crime he couldn't forgive. Dumbledore could opine about what a great loss it'd be to the school to lose him as potions master or to the supposed curse on the Defense position but giving it to that man instead was an insult; anyone else would've been better than him.

"And here's our potions master already," a familiar voice said when he reached the stairway, causing him to look up at those coming down to him. "Head of Slytherin House and youngest Head of House in Hogwarts history."

"Mr. Malfoy," he said in curious greeting as he took in who he was accompanying. McGonagall's notice had said that the I.C.W. was arriving but she'd neglected to mention the Minister of Magic and the Chairman of the Board of Governors.

"Severus, you know Mr. Delacour of the I.C.W., don't you?" Lucius said in the same falsely social way he had at all those fancy parties he tried to avoid. The similarity in tone was so striking that he could almost see the customary glass of wine in the man's hand, which told him that Lucius wanted to win over the other man for something. With story after story in the _Prophet_ about the goblins though it wasn't hard to know what that would likely be but he wasn't about to step into that cesspit again.

"Only by reputation," he said neutrally though in truth he knew nothing of the man. Anyone who traveled with so many irritants though had to be one himself.

"Zese dungeons are _charmant!"_ the pint-sized man said in a most annoying way that he must've thought was ingratiating. "I look forward to seeing more of zis 'istoric school."

Lucius caught his eye as if to say that he should invite the man on a tour but if he thought for one moment that it was going to happen then he had more to learn than that self-absorbed son of his. He for one couldn't get this entire thing over with soon enough.

.o0O0o.

With a jerk of his wand the large dog jumped leapt aside as a blast of dragonfire engulfed its giant lumbering companion. He'd already lost one dog that way, he wasn't about to lose another. In a scrambling run it whipped around behind the invasive beast and clamped its massive jaws down on its arrow-like tail and immediately started savaging it with its jagged teeth and claws.

It wouldn't do a lot of damage on its own but it might distract it long enough so Bill wouldn't lose the great stone giant he had. When the dragon stopped trying to melt the giant and turned its head towards his dog Hugh couldn't help but feel the thrill of success – and a bit of puzzlement because he'd just run out of plan. They hadn't discussed what to do when this happened but he supposed–

With a push of its forearms the dragon suddenly twisted its whole body around. Building up momentum, the motion continued only for him to see his dog leave the ground and with a great sweep of the dragon's tail was catapulted high out over the sea. The sight was spectacularly beautiful in its own way, so he didn't feel much of a loss twisting his wand to release the spell which had given the dog its shape and watching it fly apart, back into the rocks and dirt from which it was formed.

Ducking down behind the rocky ridge as Bill's giant continued its assault Hugh started bringing his – fourth? Fifth? – stone dog out of the ground.

_'Crushed, smashed, bit, and burned,_' he recounted to himself as he worked. _'And flinging makes five. So this one's six while Bill's still on two_.'

He knew it wasn't a game since the dragon could wizen up at any time and realize that the threat didn't come from what was attacking it but from the easily-fried things hiding nearby, but it kind of helped to think of it as one. He tried to hearten himself with the thought that distracting a dragon away from a giant rock monster was a monster of a job in itself, and with Bill's creature being so big it was more likely to survive anyway, so he supposed he wasn't doing so badly. With a chuckle Hugh continued his wand-work, determined to make this new dog as big as a car.

The dragon roared in frustration and he could hear the blast of fire go off again as he was nearly done.

"I think we've almost got him," Bill said beside him as he finished up dog number six.

Peeking up over the ridge to better see what was going on, Hugh saw a curious sight. Even as Bill's giant was melting before them and molten bits and pieces were falling off it, more bits were coming out of the ground to join up with it and replace what'd just been knocked off.

"Hey, that's no fair," he said to the red-haired wizard. "We never said we could heal them."

"We never said we couldn't either," the tall, younger man countered. "C'mon, I need the help."

With none of the flourish that had accompanied the first dog he'd created that day Hugh sent the latest one around the ridge to enter the fray and considered removing the his tie so it could join the suit jacket on the ground near him. Transfiguration was taxing work. Another roar brought his head back up above the ridge.

A quick turning motion saw the dragon's powerful tail slam into Bill's quasi-molten Quasimodo, knocking it back a pace or two before it extended its wings as if to make itself look bigger and more fearsome – as if it needed to. He sent his dog around to one side as Bill directed his giant forward again, only for it to be met with another blast of dragonfire, a routine even the dragon must be finding predictable by now.

With a sudden flash of inspiration Hugh stopped his dog's scramble towards the tail and sent it darting to the dragon's serpentine neck instead. The dragonfire cut off quickly as the beast tried to wriggle out of the stone dog's large jaws, pulling its head one way before the dog pulled it back, raising it up only for the giant to smash it back down again.

Hugh could only chuckle at the dazed look on the dragon's face as it finally decided that enough was enough. He made his dog let the dragon's neck go as it began a shambling run to the nearest cliff, though he did send it nipping after it in case it changed its mind. Bill's giant was already falling apart to form a stone outcropping as the scaly black beast took flight so Hugh undid his spell and let the dog crumble as well.

He wiped his brow with his tie and stooped to collect his suit jacket. It was strange how hot you could get from doing some hard wand-work, even when where you were at had some pretty chilly wind. Then again, all of that dragonfire might've had something to do with it.

"You know, I didn't really expec–," Hugh said as he turned to the other wizard, only to stop short when that wizard wasn't where he thought he was. Looking over the ridge again he saw him standing over near where the dragon had been making its valiant stand against eviction. He put on his jacket again and walked over.

"You know, I didn't really expect that to work," he said once he'd gotten close.

"To be honest, neither did I," the younger man said with a grin. "Probably not the method my brother, Charlie, would've used but it worked fine all the same. The problem now is how to keep them from returning because those are something they might want to come back for," Bill said, pointing to the ground not too far away.

In a depression that hadn't been visible from the other side of the ridge sat six perfectly smooth rounded stones that were far too perfect to be stones.

"Holy crap," Hugh exclaimed. "That'd make a hell of a lot of omelets."

"Dragon omelets?" Bill asked with a quirked eyebrow. "Sounds spicy."

"Throw in some serrano, maybe some cayenne or habanero," he said with a grin, "and wash it down with firewhisky. If that doesn't make you breathe fire then nothing will."

"I've never even heard of those, except the drink," the tall fellow said as he kept an eye on the sky.

"Oh, you should try them," Hugh said happily. "They're really spicy peppers. There's a restaurant by my place that – aw, man," he moaned dejectedly as something horrible occurred to him.

"What is it?" Bill asked, looking back at him.

"I just realized that now that I've taken this job I'll probably never be able to go home again," he groused.

"Working your way up in Gringotts does seem to put you in ever increasingly uncomfortable positions," the other wizard said sympathetically. "I'm staying with my folks and my father works for the Ministry, and if that wasn't bad enough the head of the D.M.L.E. paid a house call the other day and I had to hide in my room. Nobody ever said that'd be in the job description."

"Better than hiding under your bed in case the aurors came to call," Hugh agreed.

"You did that?" Bill asked curiously.

"Wha–no," he lied, suddenly remembering what that strange goblin girl said about rumors. "It was – that was just an example," he said, scrambling for cover faster than any of his dogs that day had done.

"Besides, you're right," Hugh continued, hoping to leave that buried in the past, "we've got bigger fish to fry. Namely, making sure those dragons don't come back," he said with a glance to the skies before turning back to the other wizard. "If this problem's a new one, what'd they do to keep them away before?"

"Oh, this place used to be protected by a wardstone," Bill said as he ran his fingers through that ponytail of his. "They've still got the pieces in the tower library but I don't think anyone could make heads or tails out of it. I couldn't even tell where one rune ended and another began, let alone what rune system it was using.

"That could be one starting point, and a better one than going to the MacFusty clan to see what they use," the man went on to say in a way that said he wouldn't suggest doing either. "The I.C.W. 'borrowed' the library or I'd suggest that we might find something there that could shed some light on it but even if we had it, by the time we found anything did those eggs would've probably hatched, bred, and those hatchlings would've had hatchlings of their own."

"Yeah, let's not go with either of those," Hugh agreed. "Any outside wizards we go to would probably run straight to the Ministry and I was never any good with runes anyway; I was more a fan of arithmancy. The only way I even passed my Ancient Runes O.W.L. was to cheat."

"Wait – how did you cheat on O.W.L.s?" Bill asked. "They've got Anti-Cheating Quills. You try to cheat with them and all they do is write 'cheater' all over your paper."

"Anti-Cheating Quills are like Truth Quills," he said with a dismissive wave, "they rely on you to hang yourself. You could write lies all day long with a Truth Quill as long as you believed it was true, so I Confunded myself into thinking that it was a secret trick that I was allowed to do. After all, half of what Hogwarts is about is figuring out how to break the rules and not get caught, so why stop doing that when it came to tests?"

"Okay," the other wizard said with an appraising look. "That explains how you were able to cheat but it doesn't tell me how you cheated."

"Did they let you carry in your own parchment when you were there?" Hugh asked him instead.

"No, why?"

"Because, for us, they did," he answered with a grin. "It was supposed to be used for working our answers out, brainstorming, things like that – I turned it into a cheat sheet. I wrote all the runes I had to know on it in a way that nobody but me could see."

"Wouldn't they have checked for hidden writing," Bill said, now with cautious disbelief written on his face. "Or did they not do that back then either?"

"Oh, no, they did – or at least they thought they did," Hugh chuckled. "I watched them during my other exams and all they really did was check for Invisible Ink, and that's ink that's enchanted to be invisible until it's revealed with a Revealer. I didn't use an enchantment on the ink; I used a spell on the paper itself. Specifically, I blended an Obscuration Charm and a Muggle-Repelling Charm and flipped it around and adapted it so that only a part-goblin could see what was written; besides that the ink they were looking for was perfectly visible."

"So the writing on your cheat sheet wasn't invisible," Bill said with an odd look, "they just couldn't see it."

"Exactly," Hugh smiled.

"That – that's like N.E.W.T.-level work you did just to cheat on your O.W.L.s!"

"Well, yeah, but if you're going to bamboozle the Ministry of Magic right under their nose then you might as well go all out," he said before realizing how that was basically what they were supposed to be doing now.

"Besides, it wasn't like it was perfect," Hugh continued with a shrug. "I bumped into Professor Flitwick afterwards and he saw what I had. He was my Head of House – and couldn't prove anything directly – so he didn't turn me in. He did give me Detention until the end of the year though; that kind of sucked, but I got my Exceeds Expectations. That might've been why they stopped letting us carry our own parchment in though; I failed my N.E.W.T. with flying colors."

"You know, we might be able to use something like that here," Bill said thoughtfully as he ringed the dragon eggs in fire, though whether to keep them warm or cook them he didn't know.

"How's that going to help?" he asked, wondering how failing tests would help with anything.

"Well, assuming that Gringotts aren't going to be bringing dragons here on a regular basis we might be able to adapt the Muggle-Repelling Charm into a dragon-repelling one," the other wizard explained. "If they are planning on doing it though we could use the cheat sheet method to hide the island from dragons unless they're – I dunno – with a goblin, or something."

"Yeah, good point," Hugh agreed. "They can't take over the island if they can't even see that it's here. You think we could do something like that against the Ministry too?"

"Maybe, but if we did that we might not be able to undo it," Bill said with a look. "It'd be hard to put that in place without having it affect me and all the other wizards that work for Gringotts, maybe even you as well."

"Yeah, let's not go nuts just yet," he said, withdrawing the suggestion. "I can't really supervise something I can't see."

"Are you expecting anyone?" the other wizard asked suddenly.

"This is my first day on the job, I didn't even expect to be here," Hugh replied before turning to look back towards the tower. Coming their way was a child in a big fluffy coat with its hood up, though he supposed it could be a goblin; he was going to have to get used to seeing those guys around. The only one he really knew though was Overseer Bankor and it was hard to think of him dressing like that, even if it was a bit chilly here.

"I'll go get started on that spell," Bill said as the figure came closer. "If you need anything just give me a call."

"Oh, sure thing," he agreed, "unless the dragons come back, in which case I'll be screaming in terror."

Bill chuckled as he took his leave. That weird little Overseer from before was right, Bill was a decent human – er, decent wizard. No, that didn't work… a decent person? Either way, a good sense of humor went a long way. If they'd been in Hogwarts together then it might not have been so bad.

He tried to find something official-looking to occupy himself with as the person came closer but since he didn't have a clue where to start with planning a city, much less a goblin one, that left him with nothing to do but look at the sky and watch for dragons near the heat of the burning pit of eggs.

"Overseer?" Hugh asked once the mysterious figure got close enough.

It stopped and looked up at him with a jerk as it huddled in its coat.

"Me? An Overseer? Yeah, like that's ever gonna happen," broke a scratchy voice from within the hood, sounding not too far away from laughing at him.

"Nunya?" he asked, already knowing what the answer was. "What are you doing here?"

"That's Nunya Business," she said, lowering the hood to reveal a nose slightly tinted green from the cold. "I don't know you that well yet. And I'm here because, honestly, how many other people do you know?" the odd girl shrugged.

"Well, th-there's Bill," he said feebly as all the names of those other Overseers went flying out of his head.

"You've got a workforce to set up that'll probably grow to be as big as an entire Department," Nunya said, sending his stomach into a steep dive, "and you're gonna get _Bill_ to do it? Yeah, I'm sure he'll be a big help."

_'Ah crap. They really do want me to build a city; that hadn't been hyperbole,_' Hugh said to himself, wondering if he'd even make it to the end of the day.

"Oh, goldstrike!" the goblin girl said as she ran to the pit. "You found this?" she asked with a surprised look on her face. "The guys back home are gonna love you. They might not even care how incompetent you are!"

"Thanks," he said, feeling slightly relieved before he caught that last bit. "Hey!" he cried, "I'm not incompetent."

"Yeah, we'll see," Nunya replied as she pulled up the hood again and stuck out her hands to warm them over the flaming egg pit. "I'm safe either way. I do I hope you last longer than I expect you to though. I'd hate to have my first job end too soon; then I'd never get another one."

"Job? What job?" Hugh asked quickly, feeling like there was something obvious he was missing.

"What do you mean, 'what job?' – I just told ya," she said, moving the bulky hood so she could see him better. "You're gonna need all the help you can get to get this thing going and you don't know the first thing about goblins."

"The Overseers obviously thought differently," he cut in to say, hoping to stomp on this before it became a permanent thorn in his side.

"The Overseers do things for their own reasons," she swatted back at him, "and Gotts only knows what those are."

_'Hang on,_' Hugh thought to himself. _'Do goblins have a religion?'_ He hadn't noticed one with all the time he'd spent in the wizarding world but that was with wizards, who could tell when it came to goblins? _'Well, that girl could but I'm not going to ask her. It'd just prove her point._'

"You might've fooled them enough to get the job," little miss Nunya Business continued on, "but keeping it is something else. This isn't one of those 'shoveling dung all day' or 'sit on your butt polishing knuts' kinds of jobs, this is gonna be some real work," she said enthusiastically. "Luckily, nobody knows Gringotts better than me. I know everybody. I must've harassed almost every office for a job at least once; now they'll be coming to me."

"Oh, so you're here to hire staff?" Hugh said, finally making the connection, though why he got saddled with someone who's always been unemployable was beyond him.

"Something like that," she said with a shrug. "When he finally pulled his head out of his butt to hear what I was saying and send me here, he said I was to be your 'goblin liaison.' I take it to be more like a personal assistant, because you'll need something way more involved than just a secretary – just don't get any ideas, pretty boy," she finished with a scowl and a point.

He was beginning to miss the Ministry's slightly malevolent bigotry, because at least that he understood. Here he was though, completely lost. How could anything function when everything was so jumbled up?

"So Overseer Bankor sent you here?" Hugh asked, thinking the 'goblin liaison' thing would likely only come from him. "I was under the impression that goblins don't talk about Overseers like that."

"Beh," she derided with a wave. "He's not gonna do anything to me. It's not like it's Overseer Gutripper we're talking about. Besides, he wanted me to keep an eye on you."

"–Keep an eye on me?" he interjected, almost afraid to ask who this Gutripper was and how he got that name. "What does he think I'm going to do?" he asked, remembering that threat about betrayal.

"Probably end up dead," Nunya said stoically. "Ideally, I'd say he sent me here to keep you alive, but he doubts my ability to do that for myself," she shrugged as she pulled out a knife from somewhere and bent over to tap the eggs.

"You seem to make enemies easily though," she said when she continued. "He's sending people to your place to get your stuff since he doesn't trust the Ministry not to come after you now that you're ours," she said ominously as a weight settled in his stomach. "I don't know where he's gonna put you though. Rumor has it the Enforcer's not happy that you're here at all, and his guards are everywhere."

Hugh didn't have to ask who that was. Matching it up with the name Gutripper it could only be one person, it was grumpy Mr. Buzzcut from before.

_'Good grief,_' he thought morosely. _'I've jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Great going, Hugh._'

"I suppose they could always stick you here though," the girl said critically. "I haven't seen many people here at all. I guess that'll change though when we knock that tower down and get to work."

His mind slammed on the brakes so fast he was sure his brain was bruised.

"What! Why would we do something like that?" he asked aghast.

"Why wouldn't we?" she rebutted with a shrug. "There's got to be more stone in that than there is in the surface levels of the bank combined, and that's a lot of stone. We could probably build two – maybe even three – bank-like buildings here with that; more if the inside walls are thicker. We could quarry it here, I guess," Nunya said as she tapped the ground her foot as if to see what it was made of, "but there's no telling what kind of quality we'd get out of it, and they're not gonna want to ship it in from somewhere else when we've got something this close."

"But that's hundreds of years of wizarding history!"

"So? It's not like it's our history," she said with a look. "I'm pretty sure the higher-ups just want to leave that all forgotten."

Hugh put his hands in hair and started to pull. They could not be asking him to do this! He may dislike the majority of wizards – and almost all of wizarding society – but the buildings and their history hadn't done anything to him. Knocking down the tower would be like blowing up Hogwarts or burning down Diagon Alley. They're key cornerstones of the entire country, destroying this one, before public ever got a chance to so much as see it, was a tremendous waste of an opportunity, one that he couldn't allow them to make.

"No. No. Absolutely not. We are not doing that," he said definitively as he smoothed his hair back down again. "This job's going to be hard enough on its own. I'm not going to destroy this island's one and only asset in order to do it."

Nunya was looking at him like she'd never seen him before.

"Asset?" she asked curiously. "How is that an asset?"

An idea suddenly popped into his head.

"The Tower of London!" Hugh cried.

"Huh?"

"Tourism!" he said with a smile.

"What in Gotts name are you talking about?!" she asked, her voice cracking again in frustration.

"Are you kidding me?" Hugh asked in return, practically tingling with excitement. "It's the mysterious Tower of the immortal Nicholas Flamel; the tower that served as both his palace and his prison. Hidden from the world for hundreds of years, what secrets lay in store for those who enter there – the lair of the maker of the Sorcerer's Stone himself?!" he finished dramatically.

"People will be queuing up from all over the country – No, from all over the world! – just to look inside that thing," he continued. "And we're the only ones that can sell them a ticket."

"Wow!" Nunya said with eyes the size of galleons. "When you say it like that I wanna buy one – and the thing's sitting just right over there!"

"Exactly," Hugh smiled, his mind going a million miles a minute. "We market this correctly and people will eagerly hand over their money just for the chance to come here and look at it. Then they'll hand over more just to go inside! We'll replace all the valuable stuff with fakes, but they won't know the difference. And then there's nick-nacks and t-shirts to sell, restaurants and hotels, all sorts of other keepsakes and paraphernalia – we could even pay a guy to dress up like Flamel and people would pay to take pictures with him!"

"Can there be dragon rides?!" the goblin girl's cracking voice asked, getting into the spirit of things.

"D-dragon rides?" he asked, somewhat at a loss.

"Yeah, they had a bunch of dragons they used when they attacked this place," Nunya explained. "They flew 'em up here and even had like twenty guards or more strapped to their backs. You think we could use that to give dragon rides?"

"You'll never get me on the back of one of those, I don't know why not," Hugh said with a shrug. It really was the kind of idea that wizards would throw their money away on.

"I always wanted to ride one. Good Gotts! It'd be like minting our own galleons!" she said, her voice cracking with glee. "We do that anyway, but these are galleons that we'd be able to keep!"

"Bingo," he agreed, though all that did was get her to look at him oddly again. "That's what this'll be, an all-goblin city with goblin-run businesses that makes its money appealing to wizarding curiosity and a need for holiday travel they didn't even know they had. It'll be generating a goblin economy that's completely separate from anything that deals with the bank.

"Oh, and don't forget taxes!" Hugh went on to say, though for some reason Nunya started to look concerned. "If we get enough people coming here, the taxes we collect from sales and lodging and who knows what else could be enough to support a local goblin government."

"Oh no," an agitated Nunya declared with a set face. "You step away from that mine shaft right now before you take me down with you."

"What?" he asked curiously.

"They might be willing to let the tower stay if they think it'll bring in money but you start talking about a forming new goblin government and you'll end up with your head chopped off and stuck on a pike," she said earnestly. "The Overseers aren't going to let something like that happen, and it's dangerous to even think it, so you just forget it."

"What-no! I wasn't talking a revolution or anything," Hugh tried to explain. "I was talking about what they could do with it, not me."

That only got her to look at him like he'd done it again.

"How 'bout you don't say anything for a while before you're dead and I'm sold off to the next goblin that passes by for not turning you in?!" an exasperated Nunya rhetorically asked.

Under the circumstances he thought it a wise suggestion to take, so he just kind of stood there as Bill's magical flames snapped, crackled, and popped. After a moment he did think of something to ask though.

"W-would it be alright to ask how we might go about doing the good stuff about what I said?"

The goblin girl looked out of her hood at him like she was weary that he might explode at any moment. Eventually though she settled down to think.

"Hm, with the gold still in question the Diggers don't have anything to do, so we could always use them for labor if we need to," Nunya said to herself finally. "I'd rather not have to deal with Overseer Gutripper though unless I absolutely have to, though that might be where his Department overlaps with Gringotts Operations; it's one of the few jobs even I didn't want. I suppose once this takes off we could try to get them all transferred, but we'd need a plan for that."

She was quiet again for a second but eventually she scratched her nose and nodded.

"There's a Secretary in Legal that's nice," she said more to herself than to him. "She almost got me a job once. She's got a daughter that's with a Gofer for a guy in Operations and she said she's said that he's said that he complained that he hasn't had anything to do but design a flipless flip-lift recently, so he might be up for something new, especially with everything you're planning.

"I'll go talk to him and see if I can get him on board. He'll know more about what we need," Nunya said with further nods before looking up at him. "You...," she said with a pointed finger as if she didn't know what to do with him. "You just stay here and don't talk to anybody. I'm the one that handles this."

"Of course," Hugh said, holding up his hands to signal he wasn't about to fight. "That's what goblin liaisons are for."

.o0O0o.

The abandoned dungeon classroom had taken no time at all to search, especially since they had taken his suggestion to clear it out first to make the going easier before moving selected pieces back in. It was dark and gloomy rather than bright and airy, as he would've liked, but dungeons were dungeons after all. How Severus could stand living like this for years on end Lucius had no idea but he supposed it could always be worse; he had caught a glimpse of an over-sized woodpile shaped like a hut earlier near the tree line so there was no accounting for people's lack of taste.

The dungeon needed more light though, that much was sure, because there was only so much gloom that could be cast back by the torches and the dimness had a soporific effect. Surely it would make it difficult to read by too, so perhaps Draco's grades weren't completely his fault, not that he'd tell the boy. Making the boy take responsibility to fix his own failings might be just the thing he needed in order to correct what Narcissa had gotten wrong in him. He'd have to tell Severus to stop padding the boy's scores too just to drive home the lesson that he can't rely on anyone but himself.

Severus seemed odd today for some reason and even more lacking in the social niceties than he usually was – and that was really saying something. If he didn't know any better he might even say that something was bothering the man, more than the usual at least. Could it be that Dumbledore's politicking had actually turned the castle against him? And why would he do that?

Willfully taking the blame upon himself did make a Dumbledorean kind of sense, he supposed. Rendering the staff befuddled but blameless, they'd then be free to idealize the Dumbledore of the past and hold onto that vision of his for what society should be. And with the rest of the staff sharing that muggle-hugging mentality, replacing the Headmaster would have little effect on the culture of the school as a whole.

_'Some deeper changes will have to be made,_' Lucius thought as the Frenchman droned on and his scribe scratched away, quickly copying the politician's platitudes about how thankful they were to be there. _'Professor Slughorn would've had this place properly lit and taken a proper interest in the boy,_' he thought critically. _'He might not have padded his scores unless it were a favor to me but he would've gone out of his way to properly connect those of proper bearing and ability together in ways he would've benefited from._'

Aside from Dumbledore it was already too late to make staffing changes for this school year, but with the Headmaster gone the year after was full of possibilities. He didn't know who this Lockhart person was that Dumbledore had found but from what he'd seen at Florish &amp; Blotts the man made a point to appeal to the uncultured masses, which was certainly not the direction that Hogwarts would be going. What was the point of being nature's nobility if you didn't act like it? And with that man gone as well it left several holes to fill.

_'I could give Severus the Dark Arts position he always coveted,_' Lucius mused as Cornelius made his own gratuitous display of political thankfulness._ 'Someone who'd always wanted it and spent years critiquing others would doubtlessly be better prepared than anyone who's never done it before. That would give me the opportunity to lure Professor Slughorn out of retirement too._'

The old potions master had a liking of his own comforts so it shouldn't take much more than an offer of a roomy office, a bright and airy above-ground classroom, and the ability to network with the next generation of well-to-do witches and wizards to put the man back in his proper place. Severus would no doubt be a bit insecure if he thought the man might usurp his place as Head of Slytherin House but that might make him more amenable to relocating his classroom if he were given the assurance that the position would remain his if he did so.

"Binding?!" Cornelius exclaimed, drawing his attention to the here and now. "Surely that won't be necessary."

"What seems to be the issue?" he asked as his he tried to conjure up what he'd missed, his eyes finally coming to rest on the parchment in front of Severus on the other side of the table.

"I 'ad 'eard zat Wizarding Britain 'ad a dislike automatically-binding contracts, Meenister Fudge," the Frenchman said diplomatically and effectively filling him in about what's going on. "I can assure you though zat it 'as a well-known record on ze Continent for allowing ze gathering of truthful eenformation wizout compromising on ze principle against self-eencrimination. Eet would be seemilar to 'aving 'im write out ze account using a Truth Quill, but zey do not meet ze I.C.W. uniformity standard."

"If it's truth you're looking for there's always veritaserum," Lucius interjected. "It's not used by our courts," he said knowing that any self-incriminatory information gained that way would be thrown out, thereby insuring that the man himself could never be charged with anything even if he had been involved, "but Severus may have some lying around."

"Any potion 'e 'as would 'ave to be checked," Delacour said, discarding the idea, though not unpleasantly. "I understand ze reservation you all may 'ave – and thankfully ze goblins were good enough to supply ze potion to us–," he said reaching into his robes to produce a vial of a slightly golden substance. "But going with ze potion puts ze burden of not asking eencriminatory questions on us while ze Candid Contract allows for ze truthful non-answer; veritaserum does not."

Lucius didn't know what he thought of that particular bit of jurisprudence. Something like that would only serve to protect the innocent while encouraging everyone to think that those who refused to testify in that way or answer a question were guilty and he didn't want to imagine what would happen if something like that became the norm. What would their justice system be like if no one could convincingly lie in court anymore? It'd be madness.

"May I see that?" Snape asked, indicating the vial in question.

The Frenchman passed the potion to him as something that was tugging at the back of Lucius's mind reminded him of something.

"Veritaserum is supposed to be colorless, and that potion's gold," Lucius noted as Severus held the vial up to the light. "The goblins are not to be trusted; they could have given you poison," he said, hoping to further plant a few seeds of doubt.

"That's just the sort of thing they'd do," Cornelius agreed obediently as if on cue. "They probably hoped that you'd kill Dumbledore for them just to save them a few knuts."

"We deed theenk of zat, yes," Delacour said with a sardonic smile. "Ze potion 'as been tested, eet is not poison. And tests show zat eet is veritaserum though zere are some very peculiar qualities zat we cannot identify," he explained as Severus sniffed around the stopper, though typical veritaserum was supposed to be odorless as well.

"If you had need of it you could have asked us," Cornelius said in a falsely chummy way. "We would've been happy to provide–"

"Sorry to interrupt you, Minister, but I don't like the sound of this news at all," Lucius cut in, hoping to push things along a little further. "If the goblins are practicing potions in secret then Merlin knows what else they're doing," he said gravely as there was a motion in Snape's direction. "Could this be something they found on Flamel's Island?"

"I made this," Severus said flatly.

"You?" the Minister asked perplexed as his head swiveled to the man.

"Yes," he replied as he restoppered the vial and handed it back to Delacour with a small but noticeable loss of fluid within. "I gave it to a goblin Overseer about a week ago in order to cancel a debt incurred by a prior business arrangement that has no bearing on the Stone."

"Zis is not ze way veritaserum ees supposed to work," Delacour said as he peered at him curiously, no doubt wondering – like he was – why the man wasn't in a talking vegetable.

"The recipe and process has been altered to counteract the original's incapacitating effects," Severus explained from where he sat. "And while I am still compelled to be truthful, it does allow for the mental ability needed to avoid those concerns regarding self-incrimination. I trust this will suffice?"

"How were you able to accomplish this?" Lucius asked, wondering just how underutilized the potions master's skills truly were.

Severus hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"I prefer not to answer that question," he said evasively.

"Ah, yes. We should steek to topics within ze bounds of zis eenquiry while ze potion is een effect," Delacour said to them all. "I weel say though zat you could make substantial sums providing zis for ze eenternational law eenforcement community."

"Indeed," Lucius agreed. He might not want to see something of the sort become common in Britain but with the proper backing there was nothing to say they couldn't export it by the gallon, presuming that money still had value anymore that is.

Severus looked at him curiously for a moment before turning to Delacour.

"What was it that you wished to know?"

The time that followed was very informative, or it would have been if Lucius hadn't heard most of it a week ago from Marsh. That Dumbledore thought to hide the Stone here and never seemed to consider what might happen if it were discovered simply boggled the mind. Severus's laconic nature though made for a quick and concise statement of facts as if he were listing potions ingredients rather than detailing the largest breach in international wizarding law in anyone's lifetime.

That abbreviated style did serve to hide many things though. Lucius didn't know whether Severus knew that the so-called Dark Lord had survived his encounter with the infant Potter, let alone that he had been residing in the castle last year, but he certainly gave no hint of it. Likewise he referred to 'a group of meddlesome students' nosing around and breaching their security rather than mentioning that it was Potter himself, though Delacour did make him double back to give their names in case he had to question them. On the whole there was something else the Frenchman was concerned with.

"So 'e knew zat zis Quirrell was aftair ze Stone from ze beginning?" he asked astonished.

"Precisely when he began to suspect him I can't be sure," Severus answered in the same blasé manner that he'd addressed everything in. "He certainly knew after the troll on Halloween."

"And he did nothing but tell you to watch 'im?" the Minister added.

"So far as I can tell," he replied. "I believe the Headmaster saw secrecy as the Stone's best defense, though why he kept it from you I have no idea."

"'E deed not keep it from you," Delacour noted pointedly. "'E showed you. Why?"

"To prove that it was still safe, I imagine," Severus said.

"But why you and not Madame McGonagall?"

"The Headmaster would often reveal such things to me," he replied. "He trusts me."

"But why?" the Frenchman asked again.

"The goblins know why," Severus said with a shrug, the curiousness of his answer drawing odd looks from the three of them. "I never cared for using the name of Merlin in that way; it trivializes someone who may have been the greatest wizard to ever live," he said by way of explanation, though Lucius didn't buy it for a moment. Maybe letting that potion be used in court wouldn't be so bad after all because he could swear the man was lying.

"I think we've gotten a bit far afield," he said as a way to prod Delacour away from the subject.

His mind refused to be so easily diverted though and he simply had to wonder what the goblins knew about the man that he didn't. Was it that odd business arrangement he'd mentioned? Some covert relationship between him and the goblins that Dumbledore had been making use of?

Severus might have a small mountain of gold in some secret Gringotts vault if he'd been supplying them with specially made black market potions. What he said implied that it was over but if it wasn't he'd have to get a part of that action for himself.

"And what of you?" the Frenchman asked getting back to the subject at hand. "Were you ever tempted to steal ze Sorcerer's Stone for yourself?"

After a moment Snape replied. "The note that the _Daily Prophet_ said Flamel's body had clasped in its hand, do you know of it?" he asked in a suddenly inscrutable way.

"Yes," Delacour replied soberly, "I was ze one who found eet. Why?"

"Because it's true," he said simply. "Unless you already have something to live for, living forever is only prolonging your death," Snape said with an introspective coldness that proved all the more chilling when you knew that the man honestly believed it.

"And you have nothing to live for?" Lucius asked his long-time associate.

"That," Snape said, turning to look at him with dead black eyes that even Occlumency couldn't make look any more deceased, "is not within the bounds of this inquiry."

.o0O0o.

"But ma'am, that's not the way things are usually done," the infuriating little scribbler said from behind that ludicrous bristly mustache of his. "Changes need to come through the committees where they can be studied and debated, where a consensus can be reached, before they recommend–"

"I do not care about consensus or the concerns of degenerates!" she said with a righteous huff. "We are here to lay down order, not to debate what is right and wrong–"

"Actually, ma'am, that's precisely why we're–," the spineless fuddy-duddy said, lowering his head to talk down to her.

"You will not speak down to me!" she cried, filling her new office with a tremendous noise. "I am Dolores Jane Umbridge and you will refer to me as Chief Warlock!"

"Of course, ma'am," the infuriating man that Dumbledore had left her with said as if asking to be tortured. "Traditionally, the women who've held this office have preferred to be addressed as 'Chief Witch' or 'Chief Warwitch' instead, so as not to have people confuse–"

"–I do not care what other people have done or what they think!" she informed the man. "You are part of my staff now and you will do what I say. Now, I am the Chief Warlock and the Wizengamot is mine to control, and I say that it's high time we root out these unnatural degenerates once and for all!"

"Of course, ma'am, we can get started on methods to do that if you wish," What's-his-name said just as oblivious to what she'd said as ever. "There have been those who've tried similar things in the past, I hesitate to say though that it may be a more difficult proposition if you choose to proceed at this time. The Minister might prefer–"

"The Minister prefers a neat and orderly society, as do I," Dolores cut in to say. "Bringing low and ridding ourselves of the likes of Dumbledore and his ilk is what's best for everyone. Let them serve as an example of what indecency brings and the world will be strengthened by it. The Minister knows this and I am assured of his complete support."

It was a boast, of course, but a good one for it was sure to come to pass. Cornelius had always been uncomfortable having to accept indecency as some respectable other way of life and now, with the first act of her Wizengamot, she'll make it so that no one would have to have acceptance of such unacceptable, undignified, and unproductive behavior forced upon them longer. Proper people had been oppressed long enough! It was time to undo the depravity that Dumbledore imposed.

"Ah. I see, ma'am," the man said with a bob of the head that could be taken as a bow. "I could get started on it now and have something ready for you to propose within six months," he smiled happily, as if offering her a treat.

"Six months?!" she asked aghast. "That's preposterous."

"Well, I am only one person, ma'am," the insubordinate man said with a small smile that his mustache failed to hide. "Things actually would go faster through the committees where the ideas could be batted back and forth, with rivals trying to out-do each other in getting their proposals written, but since you–"

"That sort of thing may have worked on Dumbledore but it won't work on me," Dolores said firmly. She was not about to let some slippery little underling stop her from doing precisely what she wanted to do. "You will have this ready for the next meeting of the Wizengamot, no excuses!" She went on when he looked to say something again, "Any more of your insubordination and you can find yourself another job, is that clear?"

"Of course ma'– uh – miss Chief Warlock," the cowed man finally said, now in a properly differential tone. "I'm sure that I can have a very strong bill for you propose by then."

"Good," she said triumphantly. "See that you do."

As the petulant man left she couldn't help but think, _'Finally, the wizarding world will have order._'

The-man-she-might-eventually-learn-the-name-of had been right about one thing though – not that she was going to tell him that. Imposing order upon the world would've been easier if she went through the so-called official channels but after they had completely disregarded her and blamed her for what happened in Diagon Alley that wasn't about to happen.

Cornelius having her nominated to succeed Dumbledore as Chief Warlock had been a surprise but if he thought that was all it would take to make things right or that she'd be the same kind of useless schedule-keeping gavel-banger that Dumbledore was then he was sadly mistaken. This time Cornelius would be the one brought to heel, this time he going to have to come to her. She couldn't prove that he'd been behind her nomination, since it had come from someone else entirely, but them doing so would've had to come from Cornelius so it amounted to the same thing.

When he saw what she proposed the Minister would grasp it with both hands, and how could he not? After his failures over the last few weeks, failures he had tried to blame on her, he'd be looking for a new direction, a way to show how strong he was – the fool; that was not his proper place. The Ministry served the Wizengamot and just as the Minister was the embodiment of the Ministry, the Chief Warlock was the embodiment of the Wizengamot, the embodiment of society itself.

_'Yes,_' she thought as her destiny came into focus. _'Now the world will be the way I want it to be._'

.o0O0o.

The hours that passed since Severus's interview had been a strange blend of blurringly fast and monotonously slow, though of course he supposed the whole thing could've been so bromidically boring as to have blessedly blended itself together. The sort of sustained social work required to slyly slide someone to your side was so much easier and more productive when there were plenty of other groups to converse with and play against each other; the wine flowing freely never hurt either. As it was Lucius found that he was getting no closer to his goal at all. In fact he may be losing ground, as strange as it may seem.

They had spoken with Severus, separated so the Parisian could look in on how the investigators' interviews with the other professors were going while he had remained behind to have a few words with Severus about other concerns, only to meet up again on the mysterious third floor to learn what a great lot of nothing that turned out to be, and then they toured much of the castle and grounds while grilling McGonagall over what she knew. And though hearing more about the protections they'd placed around the Stone was mildly interesting it really didn't amount to much besides an attempt for the professors to compete with each other in showcasing their abilities.

At first it was easy to casually slip in the occasional anti-goblin comment whether it was about the Stone and how they – with a silent 'as humans' – needed to work together to resolve the matter or about how 'other concerns with the bank' were keeping that from happening. Cornelius would agree of course, and naturally add his own, but that had only caused the visiting Delacour to look at him for a moment before continuing on as if they hadn't said anything. Over time those looks became longer and then would come before the Minister's agreeing comment, even when he himself had pulled back on the frequency in which he said them.

It was somewhat unsettling to realize that he had been the one that'd been forced to moderate his tone and speech rather than the other way around but it was a small and temporary price to pay in order to stay close to the man. Perhaps what he had attempted was to too much for the man too soon but given access and enough time a remarkable amount of change could happen in a man's mind. Delacour did seem particularly canny about such things though and now he'd begun sending him those looks as soon as Cornelius opened his mouth, even when he himself hadn't said anything at all.

It was almost a relief when it came time to return to the castle and call Dumbledore down from his lofty perch so they could finally finish the day off. They could have gone to him of course rather than to send aurors to bring him to them but even Cornelius saw the sense in treating the man like the criminal he was. What none of them expected though was for it to take so long, which gave the tediously trite Frenchman time to taunt him even more by giving simple suggestions and the obvious next steps that made too much sense to ignore – it was the very tactic that he had used in the past to get so many others reliant on his advice.

Lucius decided that he couldn't stand the man and the sooner he could get him away from the Minister and out of the country, the better off everyone would be. He just couldn't understand the man; surely someone as astute and politically sophisticated as this Delacour was would see the futility of fighting amongst themselves when there was a meddlesome and untrustworthy third party to act in concert against. Wizarding Britain and their continental cousins had their differing points of view but it wasn't like–

_'Severus was right,_' he thought as he battled a suddenly sour stomach. _'Invoking Merlin's name for this would be an insult to the man's memory. Then again,_' Lucius said to himself, _'the man was said to be of Slytherin House so he might've disemboweled the Frenchman instead, before going on to do something truly drastic to protect the country from their influence._'

Lucius looked at him out of the corner of his eye as the man gave the Minister his assurances that all the golden plates from the great hall and the many cups and plaques from the trophy room that they'd have to confiscate would be returned once the gold testing was complete – though how long that would take he couldn't say.

_'He couldn't be one of those people who actually_ likes _non-human creatures, could he?'_ he wondered as he tried to see him anew._ 'No. No, certainly not. The man carried himself too well for that sort of thing; he was obviously well-bred. Espousing those beliefs are one thing, carrying them out is another. If one of them tried to marry his son or daughter, then we'd see where he really stood on the subject._'

If it wasn't that, and he'd already negated any hope he had of detachment from their politics, then it really left only one other thing the man could be: a moralizing busy-body. How anyone could stand being such a small and insignificant person as to be constantly compelled to go around trying to feel superior by striving to make everyone who doesn't agree with your narrow-minded view feel cheap and small he didn't know. What he did know though was that such a thing would never be tolerated in Britain, no matter what the man thought.

_'Just let the man try to tell people here that they were no better than goblins,_' Lucius thought as the aurors they'd sent for Dumbledore finally came back into sight. _'The country would revolt faster than they would if they cancelled Quidditch. Some people are just better than others and everyone knew it._'

The downside of not using Merlin to swear by though was that it left you with very little to say, even when the nemesis you've spent years sparring and trading jabs with hobbles through the door wearing what'd pass for an old bed sheet. What was the old man playing at?

"Merlin's beard," the Minister whispered to him suddenly. "Has he gone mad?"

That being the first thing to pop into Cornelius's head made everything perfectly clear.

"I'd say 'no,' Minister," he replied. "I think the man's trying to trick us. After all, if he was mad he'd spend the rest of his life in a comfortable ward at Saint Mungo's, not locked away in Azkaban."

"Gah, really!" the scandalized Minister whispered before turning to glare at the hobbling, smiling man that was making his way over to them.

"Cornelius, Lucius," Dumbledore greeted them as soon as he was close enough, "a pleasure to see you as always. And Jean-Olivier, I had been wondering who they would send, and they did not disappoint. They could not have made a wiser choice. I do hope your time here has been pleasant, given the circumstances," he finished with a groan as he sat across from them in the same dungeon classroom as before.

"Given ze circumstances," Delacour said in a more remote manner, though not so remote as to make it seem falsely so.

Lucius forced himself not to smile.

_'Even in defeat he's still trying sow the seeds of suspicion somewhere else and turn us against each other,_' he thought humorously. _'The old man simply can't help himself. He has to try and play with our minds and perceptions when he has the chance._'

"Before we begeen," the Frenchman said as he beckoned one of his fellows over, "would you preefer ze Candid Contract or veritaserum?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said in that sagely way he had when he was trying to buy more time to think. "Naturally I would choose the Candid Contract, since I know that it's what you favor, but alas, I am no longer allowed a wand," the man said with large eyes trying to illicit pity. "And veritaserum would put our English friends at a loss since it is not used in our courts."

"Laws can be changed," the Cornelius said tersely, which drew a curious look from the accused man and made Delacour look past the Minister to him as if he were the one making the man speak.

"I really don't think that'll be a concern here," Lucius cut in smoothly, ignoring the Frenchman's look. "The Stone is an I.C.W. affair," he said with a polite smile and nod to the obstinate Delacour, "the Deputy-Inspector General has been gracious enough to include us as honored guests so that we can see that all the appropriate steps are being taken to safeguard our mutual economies and your rights as an individual. And I must say," he continued, turning to the man in question, "that this has been very professionally done. The Hogwarts Board of Governors commends you for your efforts."

"Oh yes, very well done," the Minister added.

Delacour nodded appreciatively at their words but his smile looked more like someone who was amused by their efforts. What did the man have against trying to reset relations between them in a more positive direction? It was as if he saw them as if they were small children playing with dolls. It was an aggravating tactic but if he thought it'd put him off his goal then he was sadly mistaken; it would just take more time.

"As eet would 'appen," the Frenchman said, getting back to the matter at hand, "your potion mastair 'appened upon ze most eencredible breakthrough for veritaserum zat I am sure weel pass ze standards board een short ordair."

"He is a man of many special talents," Dumbledore smiled, making him wonder–

No. No, he wasn't thinking about that. It was a well-known secret that Dumbledore was that-that _other way_ when it came to private things but Lucius refused to even contemplate anything like that. Getting in good with the Headmaster because the so-called Dark Lord commanded you to was one thing; doing… _that_ was going too far by half.

Once the man had been properly dosed he expected all sorts of evasions and equivocations and Albus did not disappoint. To the very first question, whether the Stone was ever at Hogwarts, the man simply smiled and said, "Yes… and no. It depends, I suppose, on how you define the term."

"Th-the Stone," Cornelius sputtered, at a loss for words. "The one guarded by goblins."

"And by 'ere at 'Ogwarts we mean 'ere, at 'Ogwarts," Delacour clarified.

"And I'm afraid that still gets us no closer to the truth," Dumbledore said sagely. "Perhaps it would be better if I were to explain. Why I must say both yes and no to what you ask has to do with what the Stone is, and what it is not. In my youth, after I had passed through our process to be able to see and study with my dear friend, Nicholas – the stipulation never to reveal information that has not been cleared by the I.C.W. has been rendered moot, I take it?" he asked Delacour quickly, which got him an equally quick nod.

"Ah," he continued. "In my youth I came upon a curious phrase in some old correspondence he had tucked away, forgotten in a book. 'The stone that is not a stone,' it said and I must admit that I was puzzled. And Nicholas, of course, would give me no help in unraveling the mystery."

"And well he shouldn't," the Minister butt in to say. "We've seen what you did with it."

Dumbledore smiled at him.

"That part of the story comes in far later, I'm afraid," he said, looking over his half-moon spectacles at him. "But, as I was saying... The phrase got me curious, and sometime later I was able to puzzle it out. How could a stone not be a stone? Why, it's simple. The stone is not a stone when it is the Stone itself and that Stone is something else entirely."

Lucius suddenly felt everything on the left side of his brain turn sideways but didn't want to voice his concerns.

"You're saying that the Stone is a fraud?!" Delacour exclaimed, saving him from having to do so.

"A curious question, with humorous implications depending on how you define the terms," a jovial Dumbledore remarked. "The answer for which is 'yes,' to all possible interpretations; that does require a bit more explanation though. It was some years into our friendship when I presented him with this," he said as he continued the story, "and though he had sworn never to tell the secrets involved with the _use_ of the Stone, it was never a part of any agreement he made to hide how the whole thing came to be."

In spite of himself Lucius felt the spike of curiosity for as far as trying to talk his way out of trouble went, what Dumbledore was attempting would be a master stroke of duplicity and subterfuge if he could actually pull it off. Fortunately, for his purposes, they had more than the Stone to use against him.

"In the thrill of discovery and the excitement of returning both himself and his wife to the prime of their youths, Nicholas made an unfortunate mistake," Albus said sadly. "He sought to give the remarkable benefits to the entire world by eliminating their debts in one fell swoop and ushering us all into a new age of prosperity. Naturally, as such foolhardy plans often do, his good intentions went awry when the gift was not accepted in the spirit that it was given."

"'E almost destroyed all of France!" their county's visitor said angrily as Dumbledore finally hit on something that mattered to him. "'E would 'ave left us destitute."

The old man nodded sadly, "Many believe that with age comes wisdom, but that is not always so. Bitter experience brings that and in this case it was bought at a terrible price. Nicholas was forced to flee his home and was hunted by wrathful rulers, beguiling bankers, mischievous merchants, and penniless peasants for almost seven years, the wizarding world began to turn against Alchemy as a whole, and many noted scholars lost their lives because of fear, jealousy, and suspicion. Nicholas himself faced death on a nearly-constant basis until he finally came to these shores."

"And what does this have to do with the Stone being a fraud?" Lucius cut in to ask before they got too mired in the past.

"When he and Perenelle arrived, Nicholas knew that they would never be allowed to live in peace as long as people still feared what he could do, and they would always fear what they could not control," Dumbledore said by way of explanation. "That is why he created a stone like no other, and convinced the goblin king that bartering it on his behalf for his survival could give the king all of the power and influence that his kind had always craved–"

"Setting ze stage for ze Flamel Agreement," Delacour finished for him.

"Naturally," Dumbledore agreed.

"But that stone was only created _after_ his arrival here; almost seven years after he was chased from his home, you said," Lucius reminded them before getting to the conclusion that Dumbledore wanted them to reach. "That means that the Stone, the Sorcerer's Stone that changed metals into gold and created the Elixir of Life… that wasn't the stone he traded away," he said with cold certainty. "It was a lie; a lie he used to buy his life. The only thing that could really do those things – the _real_ Stone – was Flamel himself. That's what you're getting at, isn't it?"

"Precisely," Albus said with a happy smile that irked Lucius to no end. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

"So you are askeeng us to believe zat ze Flamel Agreement – wheech spurred ze eenternational community to develop and 'as served as a template for magical cooperation around ze world for centuries – ees a-a," Delacour stammered, at a loss for words.

"–A six hundred year old joke," Dumbledore finished for him with a grin that showed teeth. "Nicholas was quite amused by it, even if no one else ever did manage to figure it out. He didn't wish to die but had resolved never again to hurt the world as he did; only no one would believe him, so what was he to do? Life does find funny little ways to work things out for the best, don't you think?"

Delacour seemed unable to conceive of such a thing while Lucius tried to hold at bay the start of a headache that he knew would only be cured by large quantities of wine.

"That means that the one you had here," the Minister said, trying to come to terms with the ramifications of all this, "the one that was stolen from Gringotts–"

"–Was a pretty, but useless, stone," Dumbledore happily said before continuing in a somber tone. "But even in its powerlessness it was still a dangerous thing – not for what it could do, but for what it could bring out of us. Though it was actually worthless, it was still a stone that many around the world would kill to possess, simply because they believed in what it could do," the man said with a look at him over his half-moon spectacles.

"So the great Dumbledore had to protect us from one of Beedle the Bard's tall tales or we'd all be fighting for the Fountain of Fair Fortune," Cornelius said disparagingly. "Is that about the size of it?"

"If zis ees what you feared would 'appen," Delacour cut in before Albus could respond, "why deed you not come to us een private? Why deed you steal ze non-Stone stone? Why deed you 'ide it 'ere? And ees it still 'ere now?"

"In order to answer those questions with the seriousness the subject demands, I'm afraid that I must ask for your indulgence once again," Dumbledore said with an air that one could confuse with humility.

The weary-looking Frenchman gestured for him to feel free to launch into yet another story, and Lucius couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. This was far from the longest interview they'd had that day but it was surely the most tiresome. A week spent searching this place to try and confirm what the man was saying would likely have the wizards of the I.C.W. either permanently stupefied or dreading the thought of talking to the man again.

"Eternity, as it turns out, requires a great deal of persistence to endure," Albus said somberly when he began again. "And while I would like to think that my friendship with Nicholas may have helped give him the drive to continue seeing the next sunrise, who can say for sure where that desire sprang from? Unfortunately, it was not a desire that his wife, Perenelle, continued to share.

"She had confessed to me once that she had forgotten what life outside the tower was even like," Dumbledore said in a way that evoked a kind of reflective, contemplative sadness. "I think it may have been not wishing to leave Nicholas by himself that had her choose to linger on but, in a way, I'm surprised that she elected to live as long as she had. I am grateful for it, in my own selfish way, for it let me get to know them, but there you are."

"Zere we are, what?" Delacour asked. "'Ow ees zat an answer?"

"My apologies, Jean-Olivier, you are right," Dumbledore demurred. "That was not an answer but an old orator's offense of setting up the conundrum that we faced. Perenelle wanted a change and embracing death, and discovering what mysteries wait for them beyond, was preferable to her than continuing to live as they were.

"Nicholas, for his part, was willing to go with her," he continued, launching into yet another story-like answer that was beginning to feel like a History of Magic lesson. "Being locked away from the world for so long though – a world that seemed to them to change every time they looked – did not lend itself to knowing how it would respond to their deaths, to the knowledge of the great lie that had saved them, or even whether anyone would believe them. Thus, he feared what would happen if the false Stone was left in untrustworthy hands."

"'E should 'ave come to us," Delacour declared, reasserting his point from before.

"You're the people who wanted him dead," the Minister reminded the man.

"Oui, we are," the Frenchman agreed, "but we are also ze ones who deed not move against 'im in seeks 'undred years."

"That is very close to what I said to him," Dumbledore said with a smile. "He may have lied to the world in the past but he did have six hundred years of good behavior weigh against it. He had never created gold again, never told anyone how, and had only made enough Elixir to keep the two of them alive–"

"Why would he need the Elixir to stay alive?" a curious Cornelius cut in to query. "The man was immortal; taking it again would just make him doubly immortal, wouldn't it? What would that do for him?"

His interest in the subject may have waned considerably but it had seemed an obvious question to Lucius, he certainly wasn't about to ask it himself though. Judging by the inquisitive looks that Dumbledore and Delacour sent the Minister, he was glad he didn't.

"Ah, apologies, Cornelius, I had taken it for granted that you would know," the testifying man said with a humble look on his face. "The kinds of alchemical perfection that Nicholas achieved – though permanent when dealing with transmuting lesser metals to gold and multiplying the more mundane matter ad infinitum – did not have that same permanence when it came to the effects of the Elixir of Life."

"Why not?"

"Because the perfection that they achieve is very different, though it is done in similar ways," the Headmaster professed. "The perfection of metals into gold is done by extracting the disparate essences involved and then recombining them into a perfected balance. It is this perfected balance – this perfected essence – that then perfects the matter in which it resides; so too does the Elixir of Life, though the essence on which it works is that of the soul, and the body is then renewed by it."

"That-that doesn't really explain," the Minister said, and Lucius was inclined to agree, no matter how the Frenchman was nodding.

"Though ze spirit may be renewed, ze man weel always remain 'imself," Delacour dumbledored his way through in explanation. "All ze potions and magic we 'ave may tweest and contort 'im into something 'e ees not, but ze man weel always be what 'e is. So while the Elixir can rejuvenate ze body, only experience can change ze man."

"Quite so, Dumbledore agreed. "In other words, the perfected state that's reached through the magical process is impermanent for the man will eventually return to what he is: changeable, and therefore mortal. Living life in seven year increments though does add up over time. Deciding to no longer prolong their lives and simply not taking the Elixir again would, in this instance, be as if Time itself suddenly sped up for them and made them the age they should naturally be," he finished finally.

"They'd be like the Lost Generation," Cornelius said aghast at the thought.

"Indeed," Lucius drawled.

"Taken, for ze moment, zat Nichola Flamel did indeed eentend to end 'is life," Delacour said as his scribe scribbled away beside him. "You steell 'aven't explained why you stole ze stone, even eef it was a fake."

Lucius sat up in his chair, rather interested in what Dumbledore would say to that while the man himself seemed to consider his options.

"I cannot say for certain how Nicholas had planned to go about handling the realities of ending his life," he said when he finally answered. "Simply waiting for the potion to expire was the most dignified means he had available but there was still the issue of how to inform his goblin caretakers. Naturally, he did not wish them to be alarmed when it finally happened and think something was amiss but should they prove less than understanding concerning his decision there would still be quite some time to have to live with potentially severe consequences should the full story be told too soon."

"So even after all this time Flamel was still a coward?" Lucius probingly pricked the man.

"If by that you mean that he didn't wish to face the goblins' ire or the world's wrath, as he did before, but how many of us would be so eager to do the same?" Dumbledore asked in return.

"The goblins could have taken him prisoner and held him for ransom again, like they're doing now with our Hit Wizards," Cornelius said, prompting Delacour to look to Lucius again. It almost made him want to give some signal for the Minister to stop saying such things but it was now a point of stubbornness between him and the Frenchman. Eventually he had to learn that he and the Minister were two separate people, even when the Minister was only following the general plan he had laid out at the start of the day.

"Precisely," Albus agreed, choosing to take the slight change in topic. "And though it would no doubt secure the Hit Wizards' freedom, you haven't offered to take their place. Does this make you a coward any more than Nicholas?"

Cornelius opened his mouth a time or two as if to respond but in the end settled on crossing his arms in front of him with a look that clearly said that he didn't like the comparison one bit, no matter how appropriate.

"Nevertheless," Dumbledore continued, getting back to the previous topic, "I believe that Nicholas did say something to someone, though I cannot say for sure precisely who or how. He did inform me though of a distinct change in his caretakers' attitudes towards him, becoming far more distant to him than they had been in a very long time. Nonetheless, Nicholas became concerned that something was afoot."

"Simply because they didn't like him anymore?" Lucius asked with an artfully arched eyebrow.

"Admittedly, it seemed a small thing when he mentioned it," Dumbledore agreed. "Perhaps he simply wasn't used to change occurring so closely to him and thus was at a loss as to how else to explain it, so I began to look into it myself and discovered that he was correct. Unbeknownst to Nicholas, some outside influence had conspired to have the stone relocated to a lower security vault when it arrived back at Gringotts after its next scheduled trip to the tower. From there they would have almost seven years to discover the secret before the change was likely to be discovered."

"Someone else 'ad wanted to steal ze stone?"

"How did you learn this?" Lucius interrupted.

"Ah, now as to that, I will not be saying," Dumbledore said sagely over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "It wouldn't do to have them face the negative repercussions from those they may have inadvertently betrayed. They deserve a second chance to keep the peaceful life they have.

"And as to those whose secrets they revealed, who's to say what this experience will teach them, given time? Perhaps, once the truth of Nicholas's story is known, they'll learn that it's not the length of time we spend on this earth that's important; what's important is how we choose to spend that time and what we do with it," the other man said with rhetoric mirroring his stance on Blood Purity.

"Zey are still people 'oo conspired to steal ze stone," Delacour pointed out. "Whether ze stone was useless or not, zat is still a crime."

"A crime that amounts to nothing because their attempt to do so failed," Dumbledore in turn reminded him.

"Because you were ze one 'oo stole it first?" the Frenchman rhetorically asked. "Eef I poisoned you 'ere today, would zere be no crime een it if you 'appen to fall and break your neck before it killed you?"

"Not to step on your toes, Deputy Inspector, but this doesn't really deal with the main issue that we're here to discuss, I think," Lucius interjected in an attempt to end the meeting before it went forever. "I am not an expert, of course," he said to softly blunt the move along message he wanted to send, "but any crime such as the one you describe would likely fall under British jurisdiction, wouldn't it? Conspiring to do something and actually doing it are two very different things," he said with a gesture to Dumbledore who twinkled his eyes back at him mirthfully.

"Per'aps," Delacour said noncommittally.

"If we are to get into the legal reading of things though," Dumbledore said seriously, "I believe you'll find that what I did – or at least arranged to have done – was not theft but the reclaiming of property on behalf of its rightful owner."

"How do you see it as that?" Cornelius asked.

"Because the stone in question still belonged to Nicholas Flamel," he explained simply. "The Agreement he had did not change that and he was the one who asked me to remove the stone from its incorrect vault and to keep it safe. Better, he believed, for the stone to be safely hidden until after he died than for this would-be thief to realize the truth behind the Stone's forgery and come after him for the true secret of it."

Lucius's stomach roiled; he hadn't read this purported Agreement any more than Cornelius had but what the man was saying made a common kind of sense. That wasn't to say that it was true but it certainly sounded so, which went along way in disarming them of this issue. It wouldn't be enough for him to have Cornelius drop it but it might be enough to get the I.C.W. not to press for extradition once the Potter boy's case against him was over.

Lucius much preferred the thought of Dumbledore spending the remainder of his days locked away in Azkaban. The I.C.W.'s Nurmengard simply didn't have that kind of appeal to him, despite the irony of Dumbledore having to share the prison with the Dark Wizard he once felled. Besides, that prison was said to be rather comfortable in comparison, providing books and all sorts of amenities for their prisoner. The two of them would eventually age and die in comfort, like the Flamels had, and what sort of end for him would that be?

"Now that they are gone though and the truth has been revealed," Dumbledore said with a smile as his hand dipped into his pocket. "I think it's safe to say that this will be safe in your hands now," he smiled, placing what looked like a large uncut ruby the size of a man's palm on the table in front of an eye-popping Delacour.

"Is–is that–?" Cornelius asked with similar shock.

"The pretty, but useless stone, yes," Albus said, his eyes twinkling merrily.

.o0O0o.

Petunia peered out the window from between the slats of the blinds. She couldn't see them out there, but they were there. They'd been out there all day and she couldn't stand it. Her perfectly normal life had been turned into one giant freak show with her as the main attraction.

_'I am not the freak,_' she seethed to herself. _'They're the freaks, only they're too freakish to know it. They wouldn't know what normal was like if it shot them in the face!'_ she thought without a bit of imagination having to go into it for it was precisely what Vernon had done, or rather, it had been what he'd tried to do.

Somehow the freaks at the door last evening had made the blast bounce back and hit her husband, which was completely uncalled for. She'd run to the phone and called the police but that didn't stop the freak-police that'd shown up from taking him away or stop them from bewitching the real police into thinking that she'd just made it all up. All it had done was get her a stern talking-to in her own house by some big bald black man with an earring about why she should take this as a warning never to do something like this again.

All the magic in the world at their disposal though and those freaks couldn't stop the real-police from coming back by an hour later wondering why they'd left without getting their information, whether it was a phony case or not. But of course she'd told the truth, because that's what normal people do with the police, not like those people who tried to make it all go away. Dudley was still clutching his buttocks to one side lest he grow a tail as she was telling them what had really happened when Vernon shown up again without a mark on him.

_'But did he try to help me at all?'_ she asked herself as she silently stewed in her resentment. _'Oh no, not Vernon._' Rather than take a stand for normalcy, the great coward had lied and said that he'd just been working late and that Petunia made up stories when she was worried.

_'Made up stories?'_ she scoffed. Petunia Dursley had never made up stories in her life... except when it came to the boy's parents, and those would be most likely to somewhat true if she ever cared to know anything about them.

Vernon hadn't said where they'd taken him, or what they'd done to him, but he'd seemed the same to her. As if to prove it, as soon as the police were gone he thundered about the house about how they had to leave and find somewhere safe to live. The man was mad; she wasn't going to be forced out of her own home; besides, they'd tried that before and they still found them. How can you hide from people who can do anything?

And what had she gotten for all her efforts? What came from standing up for decency? She was labeled 'The Goblin Lady of Surrey' and plastered all over the front page like a mad woman for everyone to laugh at. Well, there had to be some out there that knew the truth. There had to be some, like her, who never got their letters but had to watch others go off to Magical Adventure Land without them, and they'd know the truth.

Truth didn't seem to matter to the freaks though or they wouldn't have had to put up with what they had next. What right did they have to terrorize decent, innocent, normal people, much less drop a load of foul-smelling muck all over their lawn? Why would they turn the hedges blue? And most importantly, why would anyone ever call her a 'bad mother,' let alone write it on the house in glowing letters? Her Dudders was a perfect little gentleman, no matter what her neighbors thought.

Of course she'd known just what to do about that: call the police, call the newspapers, call everyone she could think of to get them to finally see what was happening! Vernon, though, had forbid it – even going so far as to rip the phone off the wall and throwing it outside at the freaks. Of course, it only turned into a bird and flew away but whoever those freaks were took it as licence to up their attacks and send birds pelting back at them, but at least the whole street got to see that she wasn't a mad woman!

She hadn't really thought what would happen after that though because everyone seemed to call someone different. Firefighters, police, news crews, even blokes from the electric company started showing up. Everything seemed to get bigger and bigger while those freaks were still using the chaos to take pop shots at the house!

Petunia never thought she'd be thankful to see the Freak Police but they'd been a godsend at the time. More and more of them kept arriving, dressed in all sorts of different robes, and how much time they spent rounding up all those troublemakers, chucking them out if they didn't disappear on their own, and dealing with all the trouble they'd caused and who knows what else was anyone's guess but it had to be the far better part of the day.

There was no undoing what'd happened though, people saw it this time; people would believe her this time for sure. ...Or at least they would have until the Freak Police started turning their magic on them as well, then it was like the whole thing never happened so if she tried to tell anyone – even the ones who were there when it happened – she'd just seem like a mad woman all over again.

The stern-faced, hawk-eyed woman wearing a monocle and seemed to be in charge was not amused by what was going on, not in the slightest. Even safely inside the house Petunia could hear her demand to know who was responsible for what she called, "the largest breach of Secrecy in a decade." Petunia felt a stirring of pride at that because even if they managed to erase everything that happened that day from people's minds they couldn't take that from her... unless they did it to her too.

As time went on, and order was established outside, someone must've told her some version of what happened for when she finally came to their house she seemed to know everything, and blame her for most of it. She had the audacity to blame them for what happened last night when all they did was shoot someone, blamed her for calling the police when they were the ones being attacked, and blamed her for not taking her responsibility to keeping wizarding secrecy important – just as, the woman said, they hadn't taken raising their nephew seriously.

Dudley was cowering in the corner clutching his buttocks so hard he might never let it go and while she didn't know what they'd done to Vernon last night to make him try to hide behind the sofa, that left her to deal with this. The only bit of their world she had ever seen may have been that silly platform her parents had dragged her along to see but she would show them that you didn't have to be a witch to be brave and stand up for what's right.

"What do you mean by that?" Petunia asked scathingly.

"I think you know perfectly well what I'm talking about," the bone-headed woman said sternly. "If you had then none of this would've been possible for there would've been no story of you to write about."

"Story? What story?" she asked quickly, concerned about the gossip that was going around about her.

The woman snapped and one of her freakish toadies came scurrying over with a newspaper for her to see.

"Harry Potter's _Monster Muggle Relatives?"_ Petunia said, scandalized by what she saw. "How dare they use those words on us?! We are not the monsters here, you are. You and all your freakish kind, why would the boy be any different? Regrowing cut hair, shrinking sweaters, leaping to the top of the school – what do you call that if not monstrous? What would you have us do, give him a ribbon for being Best Freak?"

"I would have had you take it as proof that your nephew was gifted, miss Petunia Evans," the woman replied, "just as your sister was before him. You would have seen her do similar things at her age to know that they were perfectly normal."

"It was not normal!" she cried wanting more than anything to get away from talking about her sister. "They're freaks and dangerous! The boy set a giant snake to attack my Dudley at the zoo! We had to keep him locked up, it was for our own safety."

"I'm not familiar with the incident but do you have any idea just how dangerous mistreating a magical child could be?" the hawk-faced woman asked in retort. "Accidental magic pops out when they're angry or scared and I could easily see him being both rather regularly in this house. Imagine all the bad things you've ever wanted to do to people when you had a flash of anger or fear; I'd hate to see what it'd be like to mishandle a child like that, without someone having magic to back them up."

Suddenly Petunia thought about what their lives could've been like under the boy as a pint-sized dictator. It would've been something right out of the Twilight Zone. All the more reason to keep the monster locked under the stairs! She wasn't the only one who didn't like what she saw when she thought about it.

"Mummy, make them stop!" Duddy said from the corner, one hand covering his privates now.

"And as to the 'monstrous' allegation," the woman continued after only sparing her Dudley a glance, "I can't say that you could be any more wrong than you are. I happened to have met with the boy just yesterday and I found him to be a fine young man," she said shockingly.

"He was notably upset about the way that he was treated here, of course," she continued. "But he seems to be dealing with it quite well now that he's away and with a good family and friends. I've even been told that he has a little girlfriend."

_'Harry? With a girlfriend?'_ Petunia thought to herself since her mouth didn't seem to want to move. _'The last thing we need is any more freaks!'_

"Good!" Vernon said from behind the couch, and seemingly unconcerned for the future of mankind. "They can keep him!" he continued as she caught on to what he was after. "We never wanted him in the first place!"

He looked over the couch for a moment seeming like his old self again, only to cower back again the moment the woman looked at him with a mumbled 'mimblewimble.' What had they done to him when they took him? What had they done to her big bully bear?

"Yes," she said, taking over for her husband. "Nobody ever asked us if we wanted him. They just dropped him on our doorstep with a 'take him or you're dead' letter. With what happened here today we see what good his promises were."

"What you saw outside may have been bad but it was far from the worst of it,"the woman said with an adjustment of her monocle. "There were some witches and wizards out today with more on their minds than a bit of muggle-baiting but had every intention of harming your family," she informed them, sending Petunia's jaw to the floor. "It seems as though Professor Dumbledore had provided some protection for you though so they couldn't get close to the house.

"I had been informed about everything else though," the hawk-eyed woman said as if she hadn't just elaborated on their possible murders. "Young mister Potter has initiated legal action that may see him virtually independent if it succeeds based in part on your wretched handling of his care and it's something that I'm in full support of. Everything that's happened with this house for the last day has only served to reinforce that position.

"If it weren't for the fact that you and your family are sure to be called to testify," the woman pushed ahead as a well of dread formed in Petunia's stomach, "then you and your family would be facing the prospect of the existence of magic and the magical world erased from your minds entirely. As to what else that might mean for you, only time will tell. Prison is a real possibility at this point."

"Prison?" she asked, the fuel for nightmares she'd heard about when she was younger coming to mind. "You can't send us to Azkaban. We aren't one of your freaks and we haven't done anything wrong!"

The hawk-eyed woman remained unruffled.

"While normally I would agree that you haven't done anything illegal in the mishandling of Mr. Potter," the woman said, "It seems as though that only pertains to my world. After speaking with the boy I took the liberty of looking into the current state of muggle law and was astonished at what I found," she said as Petunia felt weak in the knees. "It seems as though your kind has advanced considerably since any of us last looked into it. So we may not be able to send you to Azkaban but we could certainly do something."

In desperation, Petunia attacked with the only thing she had left.

"And you think that you and your kind are so special?" she said almost maddeningly fast. "Your kind couldn't even handle the police correctly yesterday. They came back on their own almost as soon as your people had left, wondering why they'd left in the first place because nothing they had made sense! How's that for mishandling things?

"How many times have you repeated that mistake today?" she asked, gesturing to the window. "Policemen, firefighters, news people – these aren't people who'll drop a mystery just because you want them to, so you've accomplished nothing! Your world will be exposed and you are too stupid to stop it! You think that we should be afraid of you but it's you who should be afraid of us!"

The woman swooped in to close the distance very quickly so that she was almost nose-to-nose with her when she spoke.

"I have tried to be tolerant," she stated, staring at her right in the eye. "But people like you give muggles a bad name. Something will have to be done about you," she said before pivoting to leave the house. "Tongue-Tie them," she said to her Freak Police friends as she went. "All of them."

In the hours that'd passed Petunia hadn't seen any of those particular ones again, but she knew they were out there. Dudley was the first to return to his senses after the freaks had left but eventually Vernon came around. For a while he breathed through his nose while spying out the windows for any other freaks but eventually settled down to watch the telly and tried to put the whole mess behind them.

That was something that she simply couldn't do. The others might not have realized it with all the woman's talk of prison but Petunia knew that that's exactly where they already were. They were imprisoned in their own home by invisible magical jailers that they couldn't tell anyone about.

If she watched closely though, occasionally she could see one of them. When someone came too close to the house a wand-waving robe-wearing weirdo always appeared to interrogate them before leaving them standing there confused for a moment before they finally went on their way. There had to be more out there somewhere, she was sure of it, and the pink-haired young woman walking towards them proved her right.

She stormed to the front door to beat her there.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming back here after what you did," Petunia said looking down at her from the top of her front step.

"After what I did?" the girl asked.

"You shot my husband!" she reminded the freak.

"Your husband shot himself," the girl shot back at her. "All I was doing was protecting miss Skeeter. If he had shot her the article would've been worse."

"What else did you do to Vernon?" Petunia pressed. "He wasn't himself at all today."

"What do you mean, 'what did we do?'" the girl asked stupidly. "We took him to the hospital, what'd you think we'd do with him? I don't see what's got your nickers in a twist. What you should be doing is thanking me, or did you want his face to be stuck like that permanently?"

"That'd be just the sort of thing you freaks would do," Petunia scoffed. "But there had to be something more than that. He's never been such a coward in all his life so I know you people did something."

"My name's not 'Freak,' it's Tonks," the girl said with a stubborn face as flecks of red began to highlight her pink hair which she did not take to be a good sign. "And we didn't do anything to your precious husband besides putting his face back together. There was that bit where we had to knock him out a few times because he wouldn't stop struggling," she added quickly, "but besides that it was just the face."

"Why are you even here?" she asked, not even giving the girl a name. "We haven't done anything."

"I'm here because you've already done enough and all the shit jobs land on me," the girl said as her hand went to her back pocket.

Petunia thought she was going for a wand but all it was a folded piece of parchment.

"What's this supposed to be?" she asked, snatching the thing from the girl though if she actually expected her to read anything that came from freaks then she had another thing coming.

"They're my orders," miss freak said, and this time she did produce her wand. "I'm assigned here for your round-the-clock protection – and don't try to get out of it I've already tried; you doing it would only get me stuck here forever."

The girl thrust her wand towards the ground causing a pair of suitcases to suddenly appear.

"So," miss pink freak said, picking up her things. "Which room is mine? Caution–," the girl said before she could even think about responding, "if you say 'under the stairs,' I'm authorized to hurt you."

"V- V-Vernon!"

.o0O0o.

All in all it was hard to see if this day amounted to a win or a loss, as far as the I.C.W. was concerned. Naturally, they'd be cautiously optimistic with the return of what they once thought to be the most powerful magical artifact ever created but at the same time couldn't know whether what they thought was true or a cunning lie, or if what they just learned about it was the lie. Likewise, while they had gained a legitimate reason to hold Dumbledore accountable, what he did was looking more and more mundane by the minute – aside from the mysterious disappearance of Professor Quirrell, which he still refused to give any information about.

Dumbledore finally did have to admit that he and Flamel had violated the I.C.W. strictures on communicating with each other in order to carry out their plan for the man's death but, as far as great crimes go, that rather paled in comparison to what they were looking for. Stealing a fake stone and passing a few notes lacked the flashy appeal that taking a real Stone had, which put public prosecution of the man in doubt. Plus, there was the public embarrassment to consider too.

Prosecuting Dumbledore openly would only invite the world to know just how big of a lie they'd swallowed, how easily they'd been tricked, and how long it'd been maintained. Such things were not meant for public consumption because they'd wear away confidence in the traditional wizarding institutions. Lucius may not like Gringotts or the I.C.W. but they were wizarding institutions in a way, plus it had implications for the Ministry as well so they all must be maintained in this regard, even Delacour would know that.

The whole affair had the smell of Dumbledore all over it. It was messy and common as well as believable and credible, in a disappointing way, even down to the most mundane of details. Like the whole deal with fish. His phoenix was there when they stormed the Tower because it had gotten used to traveling there to convey their secret messages and because it had a fondness for fish, and Flamel had always provided. It was the kind of explanation that made your mind say, _'Oh, of course that's why,_' but it left you disappointed because you had been wanting so much more.

Still, as small as his offenses seemed now they were still enough to end him because people now wanted him gone for reasons they simply never thought possible before. In the more cordial parts of the day Delacour had mentioned that the I.C.W. had convened an emergency session to elect a new Supreme Mugwump – some strange-named African fellow that Lucius wasn't about to try to remember, let alone try to pronounce the name of – and the man had immediately pledged to give all the issues that Dumbledore had continually relegated to committees their chance for votes so that "the wizarding world might progress once more."

What a horrible thought progress was; all it did was take you away from how things should be. It was likewise strange to think that, as much as they differed on domestic policy, had the old man confined himself to the international arena they could have been rather stalwart allies rather than enemies. Still, one might as well wish for honest goblins, hygienic werewolves, or obedient centaurs for you'd be just as likely to find one of them as you would a Dumbledore that didn't meddle.

At least there seemed to be no doubt in anyone's minds that he was still meddling for his own benefit though. Delacour had been drawn away by some surprising finds in Dumbledore's office and he had sent for them at once; what they found there was a far cry from the lush office that the man once enjoyed. The portraits of former Headmasters and all of the hard fixtures were still in place but the whole room was virtually vacant with only a few old wooden crates, presumably for furniture and to serve any sort of function he may need it for.

The most unnerving of all was found in the man's bedchamber where he'd haphazardly attached newspaper articles to the wall. There was some speculation of his mental state being worn down by time until he noted that all of the articles were very recent, only coming in the last week or so, after the first inklings of what he'd done had become public.

It was a clever move, to be honest, making such a thing so easily seen through. It tempted them towards overconfidence so they'd prosecute him anyway but at the same time warned them against doing so for he'd be sure to pull the same trick there so as to land a lighter, easier sentence. For him to even contemplate going this route to escape I.C.W. conviction though seemed to suggest that he'd already written off the Potter boy's case as a lost cause, or at least was hoping to avoid stiff penalties there for the same reasons.

He'd have to make sure that the Wizengamot was well aware of this trick before the case was ever called, that way the slow-walking of it would completely destroy the man's public persona and credibility once and for all. Doing so would also end any resistance the I.C.W. had to letting them deal with Dumbledore themselves and leave them free to let him wither away in Azkaban where he belonged. It wasn't like anyone here would care where the man ended up once he was done with him.

Yes, as far as Lucius was concerned, today was a win for him. There'd been disappointments and setbacks, sure, but those were temporary concerns and what he was after was permanence. Dumbledore's fall would be permanent, that was all that mattered. With that in mind, it was time to press the advantage.

"Now that it's had time to settle in," Lucius said to Delacour as they leisurely walked through the castle and the sun slid closer to the horizon. "What effect will Dumbledore's information, and the return of the Stone, have on your investigation? Will you be packing up and heading home now that your job is accomplished or will you be staying for some other reason?" he asked, using all his might to withhold any tone of voice that'd make his preference blatantly apparent.

"As much as I would like to see my wife and cheeldren again, I'm afraid zat we weel 'ave to stay for ze moment," Delacour replied. "We do appreciate all of your 'elp in this endeavor, so we weel try not to unduly burden you in ze future. Alas, there is still so much work to be done," he said in a way that belied the fact that he seemed to enjoy it.

"Still, eet is 'ard to believe zat ze Stone ees not real," the man said, referring to the object that was currently winging its way out of the country under heavy guard. "Eet 'as been such a feexture of ze mystique surrounding Alchemy zat eet weel be 'ard to let eet go as a simple myth. Still, eet does put some 'istorical accounts into better light.

"For eenstance," he continued, "Eet was nevair known why ze goblins were so set on their demand zat both ze Stone and Flamel must remain in their care. Contemporary reports say zat ze best alchemists ze Eenternational Confederation of Warlocks could find could do nothing with ze Stone when zey examined it.

"So there's a chance that it may be real after all?" the Minister asked, no doubt wondering if he'd made a mistake in not protesting letting them remove the Stone for testing simply for thinking it worthless.

"Not necessarily, Meenister," the Frenchman replied. "Ze same reports claim zat Nichola Flamel was unable to replicate 'is success without eet as well, though to be fair, what Dumblydore said was true in zat regard," he explained. "Ze world 'ad turned against ze study, so per'aps ze ones they 'ad simply lacked ze skill to use eet properly or to know eef what Flamel deed before them stood any chance of success at all," the man shrugged.

"There was speculation at ze time that ze goblins believed zat by keeping both ze Stone and Flamel within their grasp zat in time they would be able to quietly create as much gold as zey weeshed," Delacour said, adding a bit of intrigue to the events of so long ago. "Indeed this is why ze terms were so 'arsh on ze goblins and why zey soon found themselves unable to do business eenternationally for quite some time. Some believe zat it was this strictness that led to ze goblin king's downfall, though who can be sure of zat?"

"History of Magic sounds so much more interesting when it isn't being explained by a ghost," the Minister said to Lucius. "You think its time for the Board of Governors to see to Professor Binn's retirement?"

"Once Dumbledore is gone, I suppose anything is possible," he replied, though he had no intention of doing anything of the sort, at least for the foreseeable future. He preferred the young to be bored and uninformed, it made for such easily controlled adults. Plus, you didn't have to pay a ghost.

Lucius was happy to see the Deputy Inspector General was finally in a talkative mood and was content to see where the man's thoughts led.

"As to whether ze Stone is real or not," Delacour continued when they were done, "that weel be for ze experts in Geneva to decide. There 'ave been many through ze years that 'as argued that eef they 'ad been zere all those years ago that they would 'ave been able to make it work. Now, they weel get there chance, and eef successful, weel 'ave ze 'onor of knowing they were right before ze Stone promptly deestroyed and their mind ees Obliviated."

"That seems a bit harsh," a wide-eye Minister said.

"Eet weel be limited to recent events and only if zey succeed," Delacour clarified. "But even that ees not as 'arsh as living een a world without money. Ze accounts we 'ave of ze 'avoc Flamel caused een France is shocking. Eet is doubtful zey weel 'ave an answer for us anytime soon though," he said with a dismissive gesture.

"Ze Stone ees only part of my remit," he continued as they waited for the moving staircases to align themselves again and they could continue. "So even if ze truth of that is nevair discovered we must make sure zat we 'ave done everything we can to check both ze story and ze gold, and zat is a lot of work. 'Istory weel not look kindly on us eef we are taken in by ze big fraud ze likes of which Dumblydore described."

"What do you mean?" Lucius asked, not keen on the prospect of living forever in history as the butt of a very large joke.

"I mean to say zat eet is important not to put too much faith een what anyone says," Delacour replied, "even one zat ees under ze effects of veritaserum. Professor Dumblydore 'ad access to all these reports for decades and – let us not forget – access to ze only one with living memory of what 'appened: Nichola Flamel 'imself.

"Per'aps 'e convinced 'imself zat ze Stone was a fake and eet is real, per'aps eet was Flamel who convinced to Dumblydore zat ze Stone was a fake, per'aps Flamel manufactured zat stone and 'id ze original somewhere, or per'aps Dumblydore manufactured zat stone 'imself and 'id ze real Stone 'ere somewhere," he said as he gestured to the hallway full of portraits and suits of armor around them. Zere are other things zey could 'ave done and unteel we check all zat we can we may never know."

Lucius did not like where this was going.

"As for myself, I theenk zat ze old fraud story is ze most likely true at zis point in time," the Frenchman said with a shrug that brought relief to the growing tension in his shoulders. "I do not like what this weel mean with ze goblins though; we 'ad promised to return ze books from Nichola Flamel's library to them when we were done checking zem but now it seems we may 'ave to keep zem for a while."

At last Lucius sensed an opening.

"Eet would not be so bad but zey keep pressuring us to buy zem all at a rideeculous price," the man said dismissively as Lucius silently sent Cornelius a signal to let him do the talking. "I know zey spent a great deal of money looking aftair Flamel all those years but zey cannot believe to make eet all back at once. Zat ees silly."

"Silly, but expedient," he replied. "I wouldn't put it past them to try to sell off what they could while the ownership of the island is still in dispute."

"And we come back to zis," Delacour said with a click his tongue and shake of his head. "Ze two of you 'ave been dancing around zis all day. No, do not make excuses," the Frenchman said before they could protest. "Eef I were in your positions I may 'ave done ze same. Still, what you fail see is 'ow ze situation ees on my side, I weel explain," he said coming to a stop and looking up at them.

"Zis is not a matter of whether I, in my official capacity, decide to side with ze Meenistry or with Gringotts," he said quickly. "Eet is a matter of me upholding ze integrity of my good name and ze name of Eenternational Confederation of Weezards eetself. I was ze one who saw ze agreement zat came from ze Meenistry, I read it, I saw eets Seal next to zat of Gringotts – and I know them both when I see them. To ask me now to say all of zat was a fake is to say zat I was fooled and I let ze I.C.W. be fooled.

"Ze Eenternational Confederation of Weezards does not like embarrassment in cases like zis," he continued on to say, "but 'ere we are with embarrassment to go around, eef what Professor Dumblydore says is true. To add zis as well – there ees seemply no way that ze I.C.W. weel allow zis without something for me to point to so I can say zat I was right to believe before zat the agreement was real, and now I am right to believe zat eet is not."

"I want to believe you, Meenister," Delacour said to Cornelius in a tone that seemed genuine. "Really, I do, but I need some proof of what you say; some tiny bit of something for me to take your side, zat is all I ask. Agree to a hearing, present me zis proof you 'ave, and let me see for myself," the man said, pressing his case directly to the Minister. "I weel believe what is true; let Gringotts then prove zat you are wrong eef zey can. Zat ees so leetle to ask. You see ze sense in this, yes? Come, say you will."

"Well I–," Cornelius said darting an uncertain glance at him as he stammered. "I guess that's not so bad," he finished, completely misreading the look he'd given him and single-handedly demolishing any hope they had to sway the man by other means.

"Magnifique!" he cried, clasping the Minister's hand to seal the deal as Lucius washed his hands of the entire affair. "We weel 'ave to work very 'ard to search zis place before ze begeening of your term but aftair zat we can see to ze island issue and 'ave eet all straightened out straight away," he said with a smile that the dimwitted Minister returned.

"Wonderful!" Cornelius replied as some of the internationals came into sight. "We'll have everything ready for you then."

"Excuse me, sir," one of them said in surprisingly good English before he gave a nod to Cornelius. "Minister Fudge."

"Yes, what ees it?" Delacour replied.

"We're having a bit of trouble with interviewing Hagrid," the English I.C.W. wizard said.

"'Agrid?" he asked, looking over to the Minister.

"He's the gamekeeper here," Cornelius said. "Big man – very big, lots of hair. Some bad Growth Potion or Engorgement Charm, I think, but rather harmless. What could possibly be wrong with Hagrid?"

"Well, sirs," the man hesitated. "He won't stop crying."

"I think it's time we go," Lucius said, finally taking control of the Minister again.

"Oh, yes, I weel take care of zis," the Frenchman said as he bid them farewell. "I look forward to seeing you again, Meenister."

"Likewise," Cornelius agreed, much to Lucius's dismay.

"And you, Monsieur Malfoy," the man said with a cheeky grin. "Eet was especially enjoyable to meet you. We weel 'ave to do eet again sometime."

Lucius offered a polite smile in response before the two other men made their leave.

"Well," Cornelius said as they made their way towards the castle's front doors. "He seemed a reasonable fellow after all, don't you think?"

"Quite reasonable," he replied, gripping his cane tightly in frustration. Lucius had changed what he'd thought from earlier though. It was clear that from the I.C.W. standpoint that they saw this as a win for them on all fronts, and he was in no position to deny it.

.o0O0o.

She'd always thought that was prepared for the realities of work but nothing had prepared her for the job she faced. Nunya had never thought that anyone could be both brilliant and dumb at the same time, but that'd been before she'd met Hugh Hobson.

_'That guy'd wander into the dragon pits at feeding time without knowing where he was,_' she thought to herself as she struggled with the heavy metal jug full of water. _'But then he'd wander back out again and have this great idea for how to make money with them. Were all bosses that odd or just the one I got stuck with?'_

The residential levels were plain compared to the surface levels of the bank but never so plain as they were now. That big tower had been so-so... so Towerful that she didn't even know how to describe it! After that though everything just looked drab, even the Surface levels, but then again that could've also been due to the fact that she'd been Outside for the first time in her life, twice!

Still, even with all of that she wished she'd have more to show for her first day of work – even Diggers and Cart Operators got something when they went home at the end of the day – but here she was, walking back home after fetching the nightly jug of water for dinner, just like she'd always done. It wasn't exactly the glamorous end she'd thought it'd be.

That's not to say that the day hadn't been productive, the guy in Gringotts Operations had been eager to sign up, but to okay that she had to talk to Overseer Fillast just to make sure she wasn't stepping on anyone's toes, but then he approved the transfer of several more people if they were interested so she ended up getting a whole design team out of it! She didn't quite know who to go to about Gofers and Secretaries but supposed they had to be included with the team and so told her crew – Gotts, she really liked the way that sounded – to include whoever they thought they'd need. It wasn't like Director Fillast wouldn't cancel it if he didn't want them to go.

Paying for these people was something she wasn't quite sure about. She had a suspicion about who'd she have to go through but at the same time didn't think he'd talk to an underling and really didn't trust her boss not to get himself killed by saying the wrong thing to the Grand Overseer. She'd have to bring it up after the explanatory meeting she'd scheduled for tomorrow to tell the new workers what their jobs entailed. Then again, she didn't know how one of those went but it was something else she didn't think Hugh Hobson was in any way cut out to handle.

Maybe they should have a pre-meeting meeting to make sure they knew what they were doing so they didn't look too stupid in front of their workers.

_'Gah! His incompetency and stupidity is rubbing off on me,_' she thought with a shake of her head.

One of the residents of the next level down looked at her oddly as he walked by and she shot glare right back at him, sending him scurrying away down the hall. She'd always been taken for a curiosity but with what'd happened today there had to be all sorts of rumors flying around about her. She wondered what they were and who she'd have to threaten to get the worst of them to stop, but you rarely ever heard the bad ones when they were about you.

With another look around the hallway to see if anyone was talking about her, she backed into the doorway that led to her family's quarters.

"What took so long?" her mother said from the spit over the fire, the gutted and skinned cats she had browning nicely.

"There was a line," Nunya replied as she kicked the door shut.

"There's always a line," her mother grouched. "I've told you before, unless they're important, push your way through."

"The last thing I need today is more people talking about me," she said as she put the water on the small stone table jutting from the wall.

"Pah," the older goblin scoffed, "You deserve it. You and your wanting to work. Why do you want to work for?" her mother said, starting her common complaints. "You know how many people would kill to have what you have? You know how many people _have_ killed to get you what you have? Why do you want to throw it all away for some lousy job?"

Her mother stood and gestured for her to take over the fire spit, probably to keep her close so she could continue to nag her.

"All you had to do is find the right goblin and grab him, and slice any other female that got in your way," her mother continued, proving Nunya right. "You could've had Slaggran without a fight, or Fillast or Braglast if you'd wanted them. Good Gotts! You could've had Barchoke when the getting was good if you'd gotten off your ass and stopped playing with knives, and look where you'd be now! And you know who's got him? Trixie, that side-winding shadowsnake of a Secretary, that's who. That could've been you."

"At least Trixie got to work for what she got," Nunya said as she turned the cats on the spit. "Even if I'd wanted any of them – which I don't–," she hastened to add, "how was I supposed to get them without working? You got _him_ by working. Trixie got hers by working. Everyone gets everyone by working," she pointed out. "That's the way it works."

"You're different," her mother repeated. "Your father claiming you made you different," she said with finality.

Nunya hated hearing her say that. She didn't want to be different. She didn't like always being singled out and everyone knowing who she was, but having a father made her that way.

_'Girls don't have fathers,_' she wanted to say. _'Boys have fathers, girls have mothers. That's the way it goes; that's the way it's always gone._'

Her mother would only say what she'd always said, 'Not with you.'

"I never asked him to do that," she said instead. "I never wanted it. It's only made my life worse."

"Worse?" her mother said sarcastically. "How do you call this worse?" she said gesturing around the room. "We're on the top level of Residential because he claimed you, girl. He might claim your sister soon. How many others would do that for anything but a boy, hm? Pah," she said with a wave, "You wouldn't be happy unless we were all three sent Down Below and forced to make our way from scratch."

"At least then we'd earn it ourselves," Nunya muttered under her breath.

"Ha!" her mother bit back at her. "You'd have an acquisition on the way within a week. How many generations would it be before any of your brood saw the right side of the Barracks level? Seven? Five, if you're lucky? Bah," she waved again. "Now I see why your father claimed you. You're just as odd as he is."

"I'm not odd," she said defensively.

"You're odd if I say you're odd and I say you're odd, and that's final."

Nunya grumbled under her breath.

"What'd you say?" her mother asked sharply.

"I asked where Nada was," she lied, hoping to divert her with her sister.

"Gotts only knows," her mother said as she readied the table. "She'll show up when she smells food."

Suddenly she heard a door close and both her and her mother's eyes went to the door separating their quarters from his; another oddity that he'd had installed. More sounds came from there and her mother motioned for her to hurry over with the cats.

"You just be quiet," her mother hissed as they slid the cats off the spit and quickly divided them up: three-quarters of one for him, half of one each for her and her mother, and the remaining quarter for her sister, if she ever showed up. "For once don't fight. Don't speak at all unless you're spoken to. You've already done enough for one day."

For once Nunya was inclined not to fight her on that.

The door from his quarters opened and her father entered, his suit looking just as pressed as it had earlier that day.

"Smells good," he said politely, sniffing the air before moving to take his customary seat on his side of the table.

They ate in silence but it was more uncomfortable than ever before. The only thing that was even remotely normal was when Nada announced her presence by biting her ancle as if to accuse her of stealing her food. Nunya swatted her head, picked up the younger girl's portion and handed it down to her so that she'd retreat to her customary corner as if to keep them from stealing it.

_'And mother calls me odd. Pah!'_ she said to herself.

When they were done Nunya and her mother immediately moved to clear the table.

"No, not you," he said when she stood, before turning to point at Nada. "Come here," he called to her.

When she got close, her father took the dishes from Nunya's hands and put then in Nada's, making the all of their eyes go wide. He'd never given the girl any chores before, he'd never taken an interest in how her mother handled her either. Was he claiming her or was this something else?

"Go," he said with a wave towards where their mother prepared the food, with a nod to their mother as well.

They both withdrew to the back chambers quickly after that, leaving Nunya alone with her father.

"Do sit down," he said in a more professional manner than she'd ever heard him have before.

She sat as calmly as she could but there was no doubt what this was, not to her at least. She wasn't speaking to her father as her father anymore but as the person he was in public. She'd never really done that before and didn't know how this was supposed to go.

"So," Overseer Bankor said his hands clasped on the table in front of him. "Do you think it will work?"

Instantly she wanted to say everything she thought, everything Hugh Hobson had said that day that she didn't want attached to her, but that wasn't something you said to an Overseer.

"I-It can work," she said, her voice suddenly dry and that water tantalizingly close. "I can make it work," she repeated a bit more firmly before she mentally added, _'If he doesn't get us all killed. Please, Gotts, let him learn to keep his mouth shut so he doesn't get us all killed._'

.o0O0o.

This was supposed to be one of the best times in her life. She was supposed to be sitting on pins and needles and eagerly waiting to begin the actually exciting part of her life. So far though everything was just going wrong for little Ginny Weasley.

Okay, not everything, she admitted. She was still able to go to Hogwarts and had gotten her own broom, even if it was a hand-me-down, but nothing else was going right for her. ...Besides Luna; she had Luna back as a friend too. And she had Tom, who lived in her diary, but besides those four things everything was wrong.

She'd known, or at least realized, that Harry wasn't at all like the Boy Who Lived from the books she'd gotten from Luna, but what she never thought about was how completely wrong they could've gotten his life. From what they'd said in the _Weekend Prophet_, Harry's aunt and uncle were horrible people and did all sorts of bad things to him, and that wasn't like what the books said at all.

In the books they'd been nice, and frequently needed saving, but the ones he'd grown up with were more like villains. That had put Harry at the center of attention today, especially with her mum who seemed to enjoy ignoring her for him, not that she'd ever been the center of attention at all unless she'd done something wrong.

What she hadn't seen coming was what that whole Harry mess would do with that Hermione girl. Her parents had given her permission to stay late that day and she'd been quickly invited to dinner, so Ginny no longer even had the distinction of being the only girl there anymore. Luna had eaten with them before too but she didn't count; she wasn't interested in Harry and Hermione was the enemy.

She was the enemy that didn't seem to notice that they were at war. Not that it'd matter even if she did, Ginny knew. If she did then Ginny'd just be obliterated in a heartbeat without the other girl having to try. No matter what she did, no matter what she tried to be like, Harry just wasn't interested. He hadn't been interested in Little Ginny Weasley, or Study-buddy Ginny – though that one had only lasted as long as it took for that elf of his to land on her head – and he certainly hadn't looked at Sporty Girl Ginevra twice.

It was sad that Sporty Girl Ginevra wasn't working, she liked being Ginevra. The name had begun to grudgingly grow on her and being so sporty was the closest she'd likely ever get to being like her hero, Gwenog Jones. Either way she didn't guess it mattered, it wasn't like First Years were allowed to bring their own brooms to Hogwarts anyway.

She just didn't get it. It was so unfair. What did Little Miss Know-It-All have that she didn't, besides almost getting killed by a troll? If she almost got killed would Harry like her then? That was just stupid. What'd happen if he wasn't around to save her in the nick of time? And what if someone else had done it first? Harry might not like her in that way but she didn't want some other boy hovering over her like that; that'd just be gross.

Ginny just tried to bury all her thoughts with food and was tempted to cram those sprouts in her ears. Maybe that would blot out the sound of Little Miss Know-It-All going on and on about some Child Projection System and Adroptive Services that those weird muggle people had. Maybe then she wouldn't have to hear her dad be so interested in every little thing the girl said either. She didn't deserve the attention, she wasn't a Weasley. She was barely even a witch, though she wasn't supposed to think that way.

She excused herself as soon as she was done and went back to her room to write to Tom. They spent some time trading ideas about how to get revenge on the other girl, but it was all in fun. She'd never really do any of that, even if it would've been fun to see all of her hair fall out and pimples and big, hairy moles pop out all over her face.

As Harry was saying goodbye to Hermione in the backyard, she and Tom got back to the topic everything always returned to: Why did she even bother going after Harry? What made him so special that she simply had to have him? With Harry being so much unlike the Harry she'd known from the books there was really only one thing that was special about him at all.

_'He was the one who beat You-Know-Who when he was a baby,_' Ginny wrote in her diary before remembering that Tom didn't really know who You-Know-Who was. She took a steadying breath and gathered the Gryffindor courage she'd need to write the name you were never supposed to say. _'He was the one who beat Lord Voldemort._'

.o0O0o.

**AN****:** I had originally wanted to have this posted by late Christmas Eve/early Christmas morning so that it'd be two years to the day since I posted the first three chapters of the story but I still had another three or four scenes left to write and I really needed to get those down. I ended up cutting one that turned out not to be important and was actually surprised at how quickly the others came together.

Anyway, good news! Finally, after all this time, we're finally ready to end this never-ending summer! That's right, after two years and 430,000 words, the next chapter will blur ahead and have them leaving on the Hogwarts Express. Whether or not they get there in that chapter I don't rightly know yet, but at least they're leaving. Thanks to everyone who've stuck with it for this long. I hope that your holidays are enjoyable and I'll see you in the new year.

And as always, thanks for reading.


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